


de novo (from the new)

by Beelieve



Category: Black Sails
Genre: A Wizard Did It, Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst and Fluff, Babies-Arrr-Us, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, John Silver is a little shit at any age, Kid Fic, adventures in babysitting, ginger dad powers activated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-02-20 13:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13147875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beelieve/pseuds/Beelieve
Summary: Flint stalks down the staircase, his wrathful gaze narrowing upon the men milling about on the lower deck. They appear just as confused as he is, but he knows it’s a ruse; it has to be. There’s no other explanation. One of the cretins before him is responsible for this mess—for bringing a goddamn child onto his goddamn ship.(AKA, Flint's no good, horrible, very bad week.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set is early season 2. Just prior to all the major action involving retaking the fort (if you squint and pretend that timeline makes sense).
> 
> No beta, so I'll keep finding errors until I die. (If you see something truly jarring, feel free to let me know.)

 “Everything’s destiny is to change, to be transformed, to perish. So that new things can be born.” - Marcus Aurelius, _Meditations_

 

 

*   *   *

 

                                                                                                             

Flint paces the warship’s quarterdeck, his boots scuffing restlessly against the salt-worn wood. It’s early yet, a roseate mist drifting across the harbor as Nassau wakes in slow motion, the first stirrings of life now dotting the brightening shoreline.

Daylight crests the horizon slowly, wholly indifferent to his impatience as he makes another round upon the deck, exhaustion gripping him like a vise. He’s almost envious of his crew, most of them still savoring their last few moments of sleep deep within the shadowed belly of the ship. They’re simple men, full of base desires so easily quelled. Men who thrive on ignorance, on self-gratification. Men whose thoughts aren’t stymied by a night of broken slumber; by savage dreams born out of their own failings.

_They're not haunted men._

Flint takes a steadying breath, hands clutching tightly behind his back.        

His nightmares are rampant these days, clinging to the corners of his waking mind like burrs. The dreams dissipate with time, burned away by the sunrise. Dawn after dawn after dawn. Yet something about last night’s nightmare was different—unrelenting.

In a way, he’s almost impressed by its tenacity.

 _Her_ tenacity.

He’d dreamed of his mother, for the first time in years.    

Illness had taken her quickly and quietly, when Flint had been far too young to truly remember her. His recollections are fragmented now, vestiges of memory brought about by smells and tastes, mostly; peony and lemon balm, saffron bread. He doesn’t know if she was smart, or particularly kind—or mulishly cussed like her father, his grandfather. He can sometimes recall the sound of her voice, the lilting cadence more so than any actual words, but he remembers her singing to him when he was sick, reciting some provincial lullaby from her own youth. The lyrics are lost to him, though the melody is achingly familiar.

He likes to believe that she loved him, as best she could.

His grandfather had kept a painted portrait of her on their mantle after she died, her brush-stroked lips curved into an eternal smile. In his dreams she had reached out to him from within her wooden frame, grasping at his shirt with claw-like fingers, begging him to visit.

 _Please, James,_ she’d pleaded, her laurel eyes tinged with sadness, _just one visit._

Flint leans against the ship’s railing, staring out across the placid gray waters.

It bothers him, this sudden melancholy for a woman long buried. He doesn’t have time to ruminate on a ghost, to lose himself to childish sentiment. Not when the decks will soon be teeming with men awaiting his orders. Not when his position with them is so utterly fragile.

He sighs, forcing the worst of the fatigue down.

_This will pass—it always does._

Flint steps back from the railing and crosses toward the staircase, idly twisting a ring. Breakfast will do him good, perhaps even tea, if he has any hoarded away from their last prize. He needs to get out of his own head, find something to take his mind off…

Hurried footfalls beat lightly upon the deck behind him and Flint turns, just in time to watch a small figure dart past him. He steps forward to avoid being bowled over, catching himself against the banister as the apparition springs itself down the staircase and onto the deck below.

As he clings to the rail, Flint wonders if he’s still asleep.

A befuddled murmur goes up amongst a group of crewmen standing at the bottom of the stairs, however, so it’s clear he’s not alone in his confusion. They also see the child, a blond boy all of probably eight years old, skinny and naked as the day he was born, sprinting toward the bow as if his heels are on fire.

 _The…_ _ever-loving_ _fuck?_

Flint’s surprise morphs into indignation as he stalks down the staircase, his wrathful gaze narrowing upon the men currently milling about on the lower deck. They appear just as confounded as he is, but he knows it’s a ruse; it has to be. There’s no other explanation. One of the cretins before him is responsible for this mess—for bringing a _goddamn_ child onto his _goddamn_ ship.

A loud clatter draws Flint’s attention back to the boy, who’s somehow tripped and fallen ass-over-teakettle into a pile of netting. The youth flails and rolls back to his feet—malleable, like only an adolescent can be—and then abruptly stops moving, his ankles too tangled to keep going. The child turns to stare at Flint, and Flint glares back.

As the boy’s eyes go wide in surprise, Flint realizes why the lad looks so appallingly familiar.

_He’s the spitting fucking image of Billy Bones._

Flint snorts, unable to stifle his reaction.          

It’s oddly difficult, imagining Billy working up enough courage—nay, sexual prowess—to actually impregnate a woman, but the proof stands before him, in all its threadbare glory. _Wonders never cease._

Flint finds his anger has waned, the inexplicable amusement enough to temper his initial irritation. Of course, why Billy had thought it a good idea to bring said progeny _here_ , Flint has no fucking clue, but he’s going to have a word with his former quartermaster, that’s for damn sure. He pivots away from the youngster and his steps falter.

Across the deck, an infant boy stands clutching at the thick bottom spindles of the ship’s wheel. The child bounces and wobbles, staring up at Flint with a wide, toothless grin. A faint circular smudge of dirt oscillates on his pale neck, directly below his left ear.

 _Not dirt_ , Flint realizes, squinting to make out the shape as the first beam of sunlight drifts across the deck _. A tattoo._ The inky mark fades, softening in color until the turtle-shaped blotch vanishes completely. Unperturbed by the change, the child squeals loudly in delight.

And that’s when Flint’s morning goes absolutely to shit.

 

*    *    *

 

The streets of Nassau are quiet as Flint departs the docks, the normal flurry of activity dimmed by the curious events of the day.

He’s taken a launch boat to shore for several reasons, first and foremost to see the chaos for himself. The malady aboard his ship is also spreading across the island—or so claimed the group of crewmen who’d hastily rowed back to the Man O’ War a few hours ago, their furlough cut short by a sudden influx of children swarming the beaches.

Aboard the warship they’d corralled the feral little creatures as quickly as possible, trying their best to identify them by facial features or errant articles of clothing. The headcount had finished at an even dozen, ranging in age from Billy’s eight years to Mr. De Groot’s nine or ten months. Howell had examined them all carefully, finding each to be in good health, their bodies free of any recent injuries or scars.

They’re hungry mostly, and unbearably loud.

Those old enough to talk know who they are—their names and birth dates, what part of the world they hail from. None of them appear to be particularly worried about getting back to where they belong, however, nor the fact that they’ve woken up so far from their homes.

They seem happy enough swapping parents for pirates, at least for the time being.

In downtown, Flint discovers that a makeshift crèche has been set up inside the Guthrie tavern, lone children found roaming the streets or shoreline kept safely there until the world turns itself right-side up again. He stands near Eleanor’s closed office door, scanning the horde of youths before him for any recognizable faces, but none of the boys—nor the half-dozen raggedy girls amongst them—look anything like his wayward crewmen.

Much to his discontent, a handful of his men have yet to return to the ship and their duties. Some he can certainly live without, but a few would be hard to replace, given their already diminished numbers.

Joji is an asset he can’t afford to lose, as is Lars and Logan.

And Silver… well.

Higgins had claimed to have seen all four men near the inn yesterday evening, missing the last launch back to the ship. Muldoon, however, had sworn on his great aunt’s life that he’d passed Silver on deck before heading down to the hammocks—though, he’d quickly admitted, it had been dark and he’d been drunk, and it was possible he'd confused a dirty mop propped against the mast for their wayward cook.

A boy dodges past Flint and he catches the child by the back of his lapel, trying to get a clear look at his face. The youngster screeches in broken French as Flint examines him, but nothing about the boy is familiar, his nose too beakish to be any of his men. Flint releases the shirt and the lad flees.

The door behind Flint opens and he turns, taking in Eleanor’s relieved gaze.

“Thank Christ,” she murmurs.

“Bad day?”

“I’m watching over a hoard of pirates whose fucking balls haven’t dropped—what do you think?”

Flint smirks.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

A brunette head pokes its way out from behind Eleanor’s stripped skirt, wide amber eyes staring up at him. The little girl’s dress is several sizes too big, clearly made for an older child, but a thick ribbon around the waist keeps it upright. Max eyes him curiously—her stare neither scared nor shy, though undoubtedly _suspicious_. She looks to be about five years old.

“Crews were abandoning their men at my doorstep all morning, there wasn’t much of a choice. At least eight of my own employees were changed. I sent a few of the older boys— _actual_ _boys_ —down to the beach to collect any wanderers. Are you keeping yours? At this point, I’m not certain how many more mouths we can feed.”

“For the time being, yes. Has there been any word beyond New Providence?”

“Nothing yet. There’s too much disorder to launch without proper crews. And the captains who _do_ remain are too afraid of their men changing in-route to risk the voyage.”

“It will be difficult to recruit, but eventually someone will need to go.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Flint sighs.

 

*   *   *

 

At the inland cottage, Flint finds Miranda’s blessedly normal adult-self standing in their kitchen.

The youthful arrivals are flooding the interior as well, she informs him, the little puritan church already filled to capacity. It’s an act of God, they’re saying, a means of Divine punishment for the sinners amongst them; a second chance, given by their Lord to right their wrongs.

“And I thought children were supposed to be _gifts_ from God,” Miranda states wryly, smiling as they part ways later that evening.

Flint returns to the warship after sunset to find the children already confined to their hammocks, fed and surprisingly still alive. It’s easy to forget that some of his crew have their own progeny—by multiple women, no less—and he finds they’re handling their newfound paternal duties with far more ease than he could have ever anticipated.

He works on deck for a time, mentally ascribing a new duty roster for the next few days. The men are unnerved, fidgety in their tasks and making careless mistakes. He should have his quartermaster handle the growing tension, but now that Dufresne is a _literal_ toddler, he’s even less useful than before. The men’s fears are eased by Flint’s insistence that this is all a temporary setback—that it may work out in their favor, ultimately, after it's all said and done. Less men, less shares of the gold to go around. They’re placated for now, but there’s no telling how long it will last.

Flint retires to his cabin after midnight, shrugging free his coat and gun belt. He sits heavily behind his deck, pouring himself a generous portion of rum. Perhaps this metamorphosis _was_ an act of God—or voudon magic, or fucking Poseidon himself, ascending from the watery depths to curse them for their hubris. But if his men don’t return to normal, and fast, they’ll all have far bigger problems in the coming days.  

Flint takes a drink, then downs the rest of the cup.

He's never been particularly fond of children. The constant whining, the endlessly sticky hands—both were reason enough to avoid them, when he could. Even the most cherubic of babes, smiling and sweet of disposition, could ruin a freshly pressed dress uniform in record time. He'd always understood the _necessity_ of bearing children, certainly. The yearning for legacy, for legitimacy; the simple need to see one's achievements live on. To ensure that ancestral titles were passed down—succession no matter the personal cost.

It had simply never seemed a worthwhile pursuit, until he had met the Hamiltons. They’d discussed it, the three of them; he and Miranda and Thomas. Bringing a child into the world someday, envisioning what their life together might have been like, before it had all changed. Before it had all end.

Flint fills another glass.

He’s halfway between his fourth and fifth swallow when the silence of the room is broken by an indistinct scratching. He cocks his head, listening carefully as the noise starts up again, then abruptly stops. His gaze settles on a large bureau across the cabin.

_Fucking vermin._

Randall’s goddamned cat was absolutely useless—had been, from the day Flint had been suckered into letting it aboard all those years ago. Coddled by the off-kilter cook, the beast had never cared much for doing its bloody job. For reasons beyond him, Randall had nearly drowned himself trying to save her the day they'd abandoned the _Walrus_.

Flint stands and slips quietly toward the bureau, freeing a dagger from his belt. The wide bottom cupboard holds a stack of ledgers belonging to the Man O’ War’s previous captain. He’s been meaning to go through them, once he’s had a free hour to spare, but it appears the rats have gotten there first, eager for new nesting material. He bends, the well-worn leather of his boots creaking as he raises the dagger. He pulls open the door quickly, hoping to catch the creature off-guard.

 _Not a rat_ , Flint realizes in genuine surprise as a tiny pair of bare feet skitter away from the opening. There’s a loud _thump_ as the youngster inside the bureau strikes against the wooden backing, nowhere left to go.

“Hell-ooo,” Flint drawls, his head tilting as he stares into the cupboard.

He watches the boy, and the boy watches him. Neither move.

The stowaway looks to be about three years old, his ruddy face half-hidden beneath a nest of charcoal curls. He’s clad in an oversized shirt that envelops his small frame, the collar dipping precariously at one shoulder. The child doesn’t belong with the brood they’d wrangled earlier in the day, and Flint can’t fathom how the wretch managed to keep himself hidden for so long.

He frowns, and the boy gazes back at him with wide, panicked eyes.

Blue eyes.

_Really fucking blue eyes._

Flint pinches the bridge of his nose.

_Of course._

“All right,” he sighs, “that’s enough hiding for today. It’s time to come out.”

When Silver makes no attempt to extract himself from the cupboard, Flint reaches into the opening. They’ll be here all night at this rate; it’s best to end this quickly. His fingers grasp Silver’s collarbone, but the boy draws away. Pain blossoms in Flint’s hand and he pulls it free from the cupboard, stifling a startled yelp. A raised bitemark curls around the side of his palm, drops of blood welling at the largest of the indentions.

“You little _shit_!” Flint growls, staggering upright.

He stomps back to his desk, finding a clean handkerchief to press to the wound. He ties it off, hissing in discomfort.

Silver remains hidden.

The hull groans softly, the noise permeating the stillness of the cabin as the ship lists calmly in the bay. It’s within this quiet that Flint hears another sound, barely audible over the ship itself and the footsteps of the men still on deck.

An inhaled whimper, followed quickly by silence.

 _Fuck_.

_Fucking fuckity fuck._

Flint exhales and checks his hand, drawing back the fabric. The bite doesn’t look quite as bad as before, now that it’s stopped bleeding. Only the front incisors broke the skin, the other marks already fading.  He tosses the blood-speckled cloth back onto his desk and watches the bureau. There’s no movement from within, no sounds to indicate anyone dwells inside. He half wonders if he’s imagined it all, though the ache in his palm clearly tells him otherwise. He thinks a moment, then bends to rummage through a large satchel sitting next on his desk. Flint digs free an apple, brushing it against his shirt as he stands. He’s been saving it, the last of its bushel for the season, but now seems as good a time as any.

He walks back to the bureau, carving into the fruit with his dagger. After extracting a thick wedge, he crouches in front of the cupboard.

“Are you hungry?” Flint asks, presenting the slice.

When Silver doesn’t react, Flint places the apple wedge rind-side-up on the floor in front of the opening. He stands and steps away, cutting another piece free and repeating the motion, placing the second portion a short distance from the bureau.  With half the apple remaining, Flints walks to the other side of the room and drops down to settle against bulkhead, stretching his legs out before him. He cleaves a slice for himself, chewing thoughtfully in the silence.

Flint waits, and then waits longer still.

He’s just about to give up hope when a skinny arm finally emerges from the darkness of the cupboard. Silver snatches up the closest apple wedge in a flash of stubby fingers, then disappears. More unknowable minutes drift by, until the sound of shuffling arises from within the bureau. Silver’s head appears first, his gaze assessing the room as his eyes flit between Flint and the remaining piece of fruit. Cautious but determined, Silver crawls free of the cupboard, inching toward the apple on his hands the knees.

When he reaches it, he thrusts the entire slice into his mouth, juice and pulp sliding down his chin as he chomps messily.

Flint holds out what remains of the apple.

Silver watches Flint carefully, his eyes shiny in the lantern light. The boy stands, tripping slightly over the bottom of his shirt as he nears. When he’s close enough, he seizes the apple from Flint’s grasp and scrambles back to the cupboard, quick as a fox.

Flint lets him go— _one bite is quite enough for tonight_ —and gets to his feet, his back and arse protesting.

 _Still_ , he muses. The exercise served its purpose.

The hour is late, and growing later, and Flint makes himself ready for bed. He places his weapons on the room’s highest shelf, away from curious hands, then changes into a loose shirt. He locks the cabin door, the bolt too high and heavy for the boy to lift himself. The absolute last thing he needs right now is Silver wandering around on deck and drowning himself in the night.

Flint draws two spare blankets from his storage locker, folding one into a thick square and depositing it on the ground near the bureau. He lays the thinner blanket over it, spreading it out and smoothing the wrinkles. It will have to do, for tonight at least.

Flint dims the lantern, then reclines on his pallet. 

He’s nearly asleep when he hears the wraith-like patter of bare feet against the floor near his cot. The steps are vigilant, and he can imagine Silver watching him warily from the darkness, searching for some sign of dormant aggression. Eventually, perhaps convinced that Flint really is asleep, Silver retreats back to the safety of the bureau.

When Flint wakes the next morning, he finds Silver curled asleep atop the blankets, a sodden brown apple core still clutched in his hands. 

 

*   *   *


	2. Chapter 2

*   *   *

                                       

To Flint’s great surprise, Silver doesn’t scurry back to his cabinet the moment he wakes.

The boy sits up on his makeshift pallet, roused by the quiet clamor of Flint’s morning routine. Silver squints at the hazy sunlight filtering in through the wide cabin windows, then yawns widely as he peers around. His eyes are alert, heavy with sleep but ever-vigilant, studying Flint with the same wary curiosity from the previous night. He’s still holding the apple, nothing left but mush and half a core now, the fruit’s pulp stripped clean overnight. His stomach rumbles, and Flint can tell that Silver is debating eating what remains, seeds and all.  

Leaving the cabin for food seems out of the question, at least for the time being, so Flint busies himself salvaging what he can for breakfast.

There’s a half-stale ration of bread left in his storage locker, and he tears the loaf down the middle, checking for errant weevils. Deciding it’s edible—or at least free of noticeable bugs—he carries the bread and a decanter of water back to his deck. Flint pours a mug for himself, making sure the water isn’t sour with age or doused with rum, then fills another cup for Silver.

As meals go, he’s certainly had worse—and the stomach pains to prove it.

Silver has taken to skirting the edges of the cabin, clinging to his apple as he runs his other hand along the bulkhead, carefully tracing every nook and cranny within reach. As he explores his eyes continuously dart back toward Flint, making sure he hasn’t ventured beyond his side of the room.

 _It’s a tepid truce,_ Flint suspects, watching Silver out of his peripheral vision as he sets the bread and extra mug onto one of his chairs. Flint steps away, and eventually Silver creeps forward, inching closer to the food. He bends to sniff at the offering, then contemplates what remains of the apple in his hand.

It doesn’t take him long to decide.

Silver drops the apple and dashes away with his breakfast bounty, a trail of crumbs and water droplets left in his wake. Flint walks back to his desk, shuffling papers and pretending to study his maps as Silver plops down in a corner, gnawing at his bread.

After a time, finished with his food and clearly bored, Silver begins to trail Flint at a distance. He manages to keep some large object between the two of them at all times, as if a piece of furniture can protect him, should Flint decide to suddenly negate on his kindness. For his part, Flint maintains the boundaries that Silver has set. The maneuvering doesn’t bother him, nor the fact that Silver is so distrustful of him. He isn’t sure how he would react himself, waking up in a stranger’s quarters.

No, it’s the silence that puts Flint on edge.

Silver hasn’t spoken since he found him, though he’s of an age where he should be babbling continuous drivel. He _understands_ Flint, that much is obvious. The boy obeys simple commands—or blatantly ignores them, with a far too familiar gleam in his eyes—but he seems unwilling to answer direct questions.

_One problem at a time._

As the morning advances, Flint knows he needs to make his rounds on deck. He debates leaving Silver locked inside the room, but he wouldn’t have trusted adult Silver unaccompanied in his cabin, let alone the minuscule version. The boy’s been eyeballing every drawer with the clear intention to snoop, and the last thing Flint needs is Silver crawling up one of the bookshelves like a howler monkey and cracking his skull on the way down

Flint unbolts the door and stands in the entryway.

“Come on then,” he says, as Silver peers at him from behind the back spindles of a chair.

Flint turns and leaves the cabin.

He’s stepped out of the room for no more than ten seconds when the top of Silver’s head creeps around the doorframe, fingers clutching tightly against the wood. Silver follows quickly, nearly tripping himself on the oversized shirt that drags against his feet.

The other children have been wrangled into an improvised pen down on the main deck, barrels of salted pork and sacks of grain piled high enough to keep the smaller ones from wandering. In the middle of the chaos, Muldoon stands holding a simpering De Groot in one arm and a screaming Dufresne in the other. As Flint nears, Muldoon audibly groans when he notices Silver.

“Hiding in my quarters,” Flint informs him, surveying the children as he enters the enclosure.

A few of the older boys stare at him, their game of dice halted by his presence. Billy ignores him, his first encounter with Flint enough of a trauma to immunize him to the captain’s disdain.

When Flint hears the shambling ruckus of Silver approaching, he straightens.

“He’ll need some breeches,” he says conversationally, then pivots and exits the pen.

It’s only when Flint shuts the gate behind him that Silver realizes he’s been tricked. He glares at Flint in betrayal, a blistering look that Flint translates as something akin to: _You fucking arsehole._

Flint waves him toward the other children.

Free of his charge, Flint returns to his duties. The late-morning air is already sticky, the sun beating down upon his neck. He’s been at his rounds for less than twenty minutes when he hears the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet. Groaning to himself, he turns to find Silver trailing him on the quarterdeck.

_Fucking hell._

Flint looks over the railing, watching as Muldoon breaks up a fight between two shrieking six-year-olds, completely oblivious to the fact that his nursery is a child short.

He clenches his jaw, then scowls down at Silver.

“I’m not impressed.”

He snatches Silver by the back of his shirt, bunching the material and lifting the boy into the air. The shirt is so big it almost acts like a sack, and Flint smirks as Silver wriggles like an eel in a fruitless attempt to escape.

A moment later, he sets the boy back down in the enclosure.

“ _Stay_ goddamnit.”

For the next hour, Flint finds himself gazing over his shoulder, waiting for his insufferable shadow to appear. Yet Silver never materializes, and when Flint glances back toward the pen, he can just make out the top of Silver’s dark mane bobbing above the line of barrels.

 _Blessed peace_ , he muses, striding toward the gun deck.   

Flint returns to his quarters later that morning, sweat beading along his brow. He intends to look over the rations manifest, their stores in desperate need of a resupply. They won’t last the week if he doesn’t go ashore this afternoon. The dairy goat is doing what she can, but they’ll also need some softer fruits and vegetables that can be mashed for the younger children.

Flint freezes, suddenly aware he’s not alone.

 _I am being tried,_ he thinks, turning slowly to find Silver sitting on top of his desk, swinging his filthy feet over the side.

He smiles at Flint, unbearably cocky for a three-year-old.

Flint glowers back.

There’s work to do, and he’s not about to be outwitted by a baby-faced thaumaturge. If the brat wants to stalk him, so be it. Flint pulls his dagger from his belt and Silver frowns as he steps closer. When it looks like he’s about to scramble away, Flint holds up a finger.

“If you follow me, I won’t have you tripping all over yourself. You either let me trim that shirt, or I hogtie you and toss you back in the pen with the others. Do I make myself clear?”

He expects a protest, but Silver doesn’t move as Flint slowly brings the blade to bear upon the edges of the shirt. The cuts are jagged, but they lift the baggy cloth to hang at Silver’s knees instead of past his ankles. After a moment of thought, Flint digs through his satchel, pulling free a spindle of twine. He loops a cord of twine several times around Silver’s waist, then ties it off with a lopsided bow.

Silver hops down from the desk, starring up at Flint. His shirt collar still dangles off one shoulder, but the crude toga is as good as it’s going to get until he can procure the little degenerate some real clothing.

“ _Come on then_ ,” Flint grouses.

Silver follows.

 

*  *   *

 

At noon, Flint heads to the galley as the crew converges for their mid-day meal.

The aroma of roast chicken wafts enticingly up the stairs and Flint realizes that Randall must have reclaimed the kitchen, now that his predecessor isn’t tall enough to see over the counter. Flint takes the first step down the staircase, then pauses. The galley stairs are thin and steep, the incline likely too much for Silver’s short legs. He turns back, watching as Silver nervously stares after him. The boy doesn’t make a sound, but Flint can practically hear the sigh in his eyes as he glances up at Flint, his slender arms raised slightly.

 _Let’s get this over with_ , Silver seems to say, and Flint picks him up.

Lunch is hurried, both of them too famished to do anything but eat as quickly as possible. The chicken is bland and slightly burned, and Flint finds himself unwittingly cutting Silver’s food into smaller chucks after the boy nearly chokes himself trying to devour it all in one go.

Silver inhales the meal, poking forlornly at his plate once it’s empty.

Without thinking, Flint drops the last of his own chicken onto Silver’s platter. He’s not that hungry anyway, and Silver is far too lean. The boy reaches for the food but hesitates, watching Flint like it might be some sort of a trap.

“Go on,” Flint offers, nodding toward the plate.

As expected, the chicken is gobbled up in no time.

When they’re finished, Flint carries Silver back up the stairs. They’re halfway across the ship when the boy begins to squirm, realizing Flint is returning him to the enclosure. Flint stops walking, holding Silver out at arm’s length.

“I have work to do, and I’ve placated you enough. You’re to stay with the rest of the boys for the remainder of the day. Do you understand me?”

Silver glares, eyes fiery in defiance.

When Silver goes missing several hours later, Flint can only glower in frustration as Muldoon tries to weakly explain how he’s yet again managed to lose a single child. It’s harmless enough, until Flint notices that one of the grain bags has been dragged to sit against the hull. It’s tall enough for Silver to climb on, and he imagines the boy hauling himself up onto the railing, attempting to circumvent the pen’s barrier.

What Flint _doesn’t_ need to imagine is the churning waves below, nor how swiftly Silver would have slipped beneath them.

They search the ship for nearly an hour, unable to find Silver hiding into any of the freestanding crates or cabinets. Flint’s cabin is empty, and he checks every crevice between the head and Howell’s surgery, growing more certain by the minute that Silver’s luck has finally ran its course. When he eventually reaches the galley, Flint finds Silver sitting on the floor behind an oversized sack of potatoes.

The boy is feeding Betsey scraps of leftover chicken, whispering softly to the cat as it licks the fat off of his fingers. Flint can’t quite hear the actual words, but it’s the most noise he’s heard out of Silver since the change. As Flint moves closer, the cat’s hackles rise. She turns from Silver and darts away, unwilling to risk any more of her remaining lives for the sake of charred poultry. Silver looks startled at first, then petulant, realizing Flint is the cause for the cat’s abrupt departure.

Flint steps forward, his anger rising. He’d thought the little shit had _drowned_ , yet here he sits, feeding the goddamn cat as half the crew still searches for him.

“Do you not fucking _listen_?” Flint growls, throwing his hands up in frustration. “I swear--”

He stops short, the remaining words caught in his throat.

Silver had flinched.

He’d raised his arms, and Silver had _flinched_.

_Fuck._

Flint turns slowly, pressing his shoulders to the cabinets behind him. He slides down into a crouch, running his hands over his face. He half expects Silver to be gone when he opens his eyes, following in Betsey’s skittish footsteps; but the boy is still seated next to him, silently fiddling with his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Flint says. “I thought you’d fallen and drowned, and it scared the hell out of me. I was angry, but I would never hurt you. I… I _promise_.”

Silver doesn’t answer— _he_ _never_ _answers_ —but Flint can tell something is rattling around in that meticulous mind. Very little has changed, Flint realizes. Silver always takes his time while thinking, the gears clicking away as he debates his next response.

_His next falsehood._

Flint knows this fantasy is unsustainable. They’re playing house—he and his men. Tending to hearth and home when they should be hunting. None of them have time to foster a group of children, not when there’s a trove of Spanish gold sitting on a beach a hundred leagues away just waiting to be claimed.  

He should leave them all on the tavern’s doorstep, Silver especially. If he was smart, he’d lock the little shit up in one of the fishing cages for the day, to keep him from interfering with…

Flint’s stomach twists, the sudden realization of what he’s just envisioned too horrifying to process further.

Silver is a child. A _fucking_ _child_.

He’s acting like this is his fault, somehow. Like any of them asked for this to happen. That Silver deserves to be treated like an animal.

Flint doesn’t understand why Silver has taken such a shine to him, why he couldn’t have latched onto Muldoon or Howell, or even fucking Randall. They’ve grown more at ease with each other since procuring the warship, a partnership born of necessity and circumstance. They share a desire to see the Urca gold reclaimed, but Flint doesn’t trust Silver, not really.

And, he suspects, the feeling is mutual.

Silver might have saved Flint’s life— _several_ _times_ _over_ , he bitterly admits to himself—but it’s all an angle. It’s not real.

Silver does what’s best for Silver.   

In some ways, Flint doesn’t even begrudge him that instinct. They’re all byproducts of their own histories, their own stories. Mankind pretends to care about brotherhood, but narcissism runs too strongly in its collective veins. Good people—truly innocent people—cannot survive in such a world.

Civilization wipes them out, same as the sinners.  

Next to him Silver shifts slightly, leaning back and raising a hand. He holds a scrap of chicken between his fingers, offering it to Flint. His eyes seem unsure, as if Flint may not be worthy of such a gift, but his hand doesn’t waver.

_Silver does what’s best for Silver._

Flint takes the chicken.

_Well, it’s a start._

 

*   *   *

Silver doesn't return to the pen after that.

When it comes time to depart for the mainland, there’s no debate about where Silver will go, no gnashing of teeth over keeping him with the other children. The boy is more likely to fling himself into the ocean than be left behind at this point.

Flint acquiesces—albeit not _happily_ —but it’s less trouble than the alternative. When he informs Muldoon of his intention to take Silver to Nassau, the man looks as if he wants to kiss Flint, pleased that such a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

Said burden now belongs of Flint alone, apparently.

A half-dozen men are selected for the supply run, and they board the launch boat that afternoon. It’s simpler to carry Silver, Flint learns. First down the warship’s side, then into the launch itself. Silver himself doesn’t seem to mind that he’s acquired a personal valet, and Flint finds it easier to keep the boy balanced against his hip as he walks the crowded docks, worried Silver’s slower pace will get him knocked over by an inattentive local.

As Flint and his party reach the downtown market, a guttural screech rips through the narrow street. The throng in front of them shifts, the pedestrians parting like Moses’ Red Sea as a peculiar entourage cuts a path through the crowd.

Jack Rackham slogs forward like a man defeated, a strip of torn embroidered flowers dangling loosely from one of his cuffed sleeves. His slumped posture has less to do with defeat, Flint realizes, than the physical weight of the child currently sitting atop his shoulders.

_Or perhaps it’s a bit of both._

A pair of thin, birdlike legs are draped around Rackham’s neck, mud-caked heels dangling against his chest. The hunched figure riding on his back doesn’t bother to look up, and Flint can’t distinguish the child’s features over the wide-brimmed hat enveloping its— _her_ —head.

The screech echoes again, and Flint watches as a long-haired ruffian boy—no more than six or seven and adorned in what appears to be a burlap sack—runs barefoot ahead of Rackham in pursuit of a goose. The bird squawks in protest as fingers pull at its tail features, but the boy is suddenly halted by a rope harness tethered around his torso.

Rackham shakes the makeshift reins, his featured pinched.

“Charles, I swear to Christ Almighty, if you don’t leave that fucking goose alone…”

The bird darts past Flint’s legs and into an adjacent alley, leaving Vane to stare forlornly after it, fingers still clutching a handful of feathers.

Rackham turns, finally noticing Flint standing before him. His eyes drift to Silver, his brow crinkling as he smirks.

“I see we both have our burdens to-- _ackh_.” He winches, raising a hand to gently tap at the skinny forearms encircling his throat. “Anne, _poppet_ , I can’t breathe. A little more gently, please. Unless you’d actually like me to suffocate.”

The hat resting on Rackham’s head rises, Anne Bonny’s stormy eyes glaring down at him like a wildcat disturbed from its slumber. The hands loosen, however, and the hat descends. Rackham pats her arm fondly and they saunter off, Vane trailing behind long enough to bare his teeth at Flint as he passes.

When they’re gone, Flint turns his head to find Silver staring at him, his gaze accusatory.

_You thought I was bad?_

Flint finds he cannot disagree.

The disturbance now passed, the shoppers resume their business and Flint dismisses his men to their errands. They’ve been sewing makeshift clothing for the children, but they’re in dire need of proper shoes and smallclothes, as well as more diapers for the infants. He's not sure what he would have done, had Silver not been toilet trained, but he'd thanked his lucky stars when the boy had made use of the cabin’s chamber pot earlier that morning.

_Small fucking miracles._

The afternoon drifts into evening, and by the time they reach the tavern, Silver is asleep on Flint’s shoulder.

He enters Eleanor’s office at her behest, finding her sitting at her desk frantically putting quill to paper. He can only imagine how her business is suffering—how they will _all_ suffer, should their current predicament not reverse itself.

“Have you decided when you’re going to set sail?” she asks, glancing up from her paperwork.

Max sits on the floor near Eleanor’s legs, ignoring both of them as she aggressively strips a cloth doll of its underskirts and then re-dresses it.

“I sent men to recruit, but as you can imagine, there’s not an abundance of volunteers at the present moment. We’ll give it a few more days, to make sure the change is permanent.”

“The sooner the better.”

He doesn’t ask what either of them will do, should they find this affliction beyond the island. How far does the chaos stretch? Do Nassau’s problems finally match those of Whitehall?

Silver suddenly shifts and exhales in his sleep, his breath warm against Flint’s neck.

Eleanor’s eyes widen, as if only now taking notice of the child in his arms.

“Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you…?”

“If I left him on the ship, I’d return to find him swinging from the rigging. Trust me, this is better for everyone.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t refute him.

They return to the warship after leaving the tavern, Silver groggy but standing on his own as the men haul the supplies aboard in the fading twilight. He follows Flint around the ship for a time, his steps slowing as the hours wear on. The boy seems suspicious when Flint eventually motions him toward his cabin, but he follows without objection, yawning twice before he reaches the door. The children are all asleep below deck, but Flint knows it’s pointless to try and make Silver stay with them.

When his weapons are safely stowed, Flint moves to the storage locker and extracts the extra blankets from the night before. He turns in time to see Silver rub at his eyes with the back of his palm, swaying slightly as he hovers near the bureau.

It doesn’t feel right, making Silver sleep on the floor like some kind of beast. Of course, his options are limited this time of night. He can rig a hammock, but that means going below deck in search of a spare amongst their forest of children. The window seat is padded, but it’s high and narrow, and Flint fears that Silver will tumble off while he’s sleeping.  

He sighs.

It’s only one night; he can figure out a more suitable arrangement in the morning.

Flint carries the blankets to his own cot, spreading them out atop the bedding. He dims the lantern and then sits at the edge of the pallet, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Uh, you can… I mean, if you _want to_ , you can sleep here. Just for tonight.”

To his chagrin, Silver shuffles forward without hesitation. He lets Flint lift him onto the cot, depositing him on the side touching the bulkhead. Silver plants his head on the farthest pillow, wiggling as he settles. He stops fidgeting after a moment, and Flint suspects he’s already asleep.

Flint stretches out, his shoulder aching from the extra strain of carrying Silver around all day. He closes his eyes and lets himself rest, the slight rocking motion of the ship lulling him to sleep.

When he finally drifts off, it’s to the sound of Silver’s staccato snores.

 

*   *   *


	3. Chapter 3

*   *   *

 

  
“And who’s this?”

Miranda smiles, a touch of confusion coloring her tone as Flint enters the cottage with Silver perched against his hip. She approaches slowly, her eyes darting between the two of them.

Flint opens his mouth, then closes it. This is an incredibly bad idea—he’s suddenly and uncomfortably aware of that fact—but with three days left before they depart, and his men on furlough until that time, returning to their shared inland home had seemed so normal.

Only this time he isn’t alone.

Silver leans backward when Miranda reaches out, twisting away from her futile attempt to hold him. His feet dig sharply into Flint’s abdomen, the boy forcing himself higher and higher as he tries to evade her grasp, and Flint can’t help the winded _ooomp_ that’s forced out of him at the unexpected pressure.

Miranda laughs, lightly offended, but raises her hands in defeat.

She takes the satchel hanging on Flint’s other shoulder instead, ushering them into the kitchen.

“You never cease to surprise me, James.”

After the supper dishes are cleared, he and Miranda share a nightcap at the table, watching as Silver’s curiously gets the better of him. He roams the kitchen, growing bolder with each furtive step as he examines their belongings, inspecting every dish and potted herb carefully before returning them to their original location. When he veers too closely to the fire in the hearth, Flint clears his throat and Silver pivots in the opposite direction.

“I have to know,” Miranda says, leaning forward to rest her chin against her palm.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Nothing to tell?”

“He’s a _menace_ , Miranda. I had no choice.”

She raises an eyebrow, very deliberately not looking at Silver, who stands across from them vigorously shaking a parsnip.

Flint sighs, taking a drink to avoid answering.

He’d had a choice, certainly. They’d taken all of the _Walrus’_ brood to Eleanor’s tavern that morning in preparation for their voyage. It was safer for them there, as well as an inevitable necessity, if their lives were to resume any semblance of normality. He should have left Silver there as well—let the boy pout, but ultimately accept his fate among the other children.

It just hadn’t felt right.

He doesn’t tell Miranda about the way Dufresne had been acting the day before, the little bastard shoving Silver over on their way to dinner. Or how some of the older boys had taken to taunting Silver for not speaking, at least until Billy had given their ringleader a bloody nose.

He doesn’t speak about the unsavory folk who have begun to loiter near the tavern doors, watching the children inside with predacious eyes.

Muldoon and the crew had spent nearly two hours that morning finagling the boys onto the mainland. When they’d arrived at the crèche, five of the tavern miscreants had started an all-out tussle with the _Walrus_ boys that had turned so violent it had forced Flint to intervene. When the childish crusade had ended—several black eyes and a loose front tooth later—Flint had turned to find Silver gone.

The boy hadn’t wandered far, just a few feet beyond the barrier separating the children from the rest of the tavern, but he’d gotten himself cornered near the bar by a smiling drunk. The man was telling him a boisterous story, leaning down off his perch to further press Silver against the counter.

Flint had been aggravated, a half-growl perched on his lips, but something about Silver’s vacant expression had stopped the anger from manifesting. It wasn’t until Flint had drawn closer to the pair that he’d realized the drunk had been stroking one of Silver’s curls between his gnarled thumb and forefinger, the man suddenly far less inebriated than he’d appeared at first glance.

Flint doesn’t regret his reaction, nor the wary looks that had followed him out of the tavern afterward. There’d been little forethought, prior to slamming the drunk against the bartop’s thick outer ledge; it had simply happened. A message incontrovertibly received, should the barfly ever consider setting foot in the tavern again.

_The broken ribs had merely been a bonus._

“I couldn’t do it,” he admits, lowering his voice. “I couldn’t leave him there with the others. I know that doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

She nods, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You don’t have to explain. He’s followed you around all afternoon like a duckling—the feeling is clearly mutual.”

He can sense that she wants to say more—tease him mercilessly, in fact—but she also knows even he can’t rationalize his recent choices. As he watches Silver doddle around the kitchen, he tries to push away the thoughts that have been creeping into his mind the past few days.

_What happens if in a week’s time things don’t change? What happens when everyone comes to understand, someday very soon, this transformation may be permanent?_

_What happens to Silver?_

Flint exhales. “I know this can’t last. Believe me—I know.”

Later that night, hours after he’s finally managed to sleep, Flint jerks awake in the darkness of his bedroom, a stream of moonlight filtering in through the curtains. Miranda slumbers undisturbed next to him, her soft breathing the only sound in the room. The house is still, yet he feels unnerved. He turns over and his breath hitches.

Silver stands next to the bed, eyes barely level with the mattress.

“What’s wrong?” Flint croaks, leaning up on an elbow.

Silver doesn’t answer, but Flint’s been around him long enough at this point to recognize when the boy is scared. It’s different than what he’s seen before; an anxiety not born of raised voices and fists, but something far more primal.  

Flint realizes he’s partially to blame.

When Silver had fallen asleep in his lap that evening, Flint had put him down in the guest room, tucking a plethora of pillows around the boy to keep him from rolling off the bed. He hadn’t thought about Silver waking up in the middle of the night alone, in the pitch blackness of a strange place.

Flint rubs at his eyes as Silver stands rigid and uncertain, his distress growing.

He sighs and sits up further, stretching his arms out to pull Silver up onto the bed. He settles the boy in the space between himself and Miranda, the large mattress an easy fit for the three of them. Silver burrows under the blankets, then rests his head against the side of Flint’s pillow, watching him in the moonlight.

Flint leans back, forcing down another sigh.

He is so unequivocally fucked.

 

*   *   *

 

They spend the next day mostly outdoors, Flint methodically focused on a long list of overdue chores.

He nails the last hinge onto the shed’s new door, opening and closing it several times to make sure it shuts evenly within the frame. Flint wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, then peers around the side of the shed.

Across the yard Silver sits digging holes in Miranda’s garden. His crop lines are crooked, the boy more focused on flinging dirt with his trowel than worrying about an uneven row of future vegetables, but Miranda dutifully bends next to him, planting seeds and covering them with soil as she compliments his excavation skills.

Silver’s sojourn in the dirt is the most childlike he’s acted since this all started. It’s the first time the boy isn’t actively plotting to get himself into trouble, or overtly concerned about Flint’s whereabouts. He doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that Flint is presently out of his sight—though some of that ease is likely due to the fact that Flint’s been cursing loudly all morning, trying to repair the subpar work done to the shed’s roof in his absence.

When the afternoon sun starts to peak, Miranda shows Silver how to feed the chickens.

He’s leery of their fluttering wings, but when the hens finally settle and start to consume the grain and corn mixture he’s sprinkled for them, Silver seems pleased by the way they follow him, greedily devouring every morsel. Miranda introduces him to Hector, the eldest of their roosters, who lazily shuffles over once he notices there’s free food for the taking. Silver strokes the bird’s head twice, grinning as Hector pecks at the feed in his palm.

While Silver continues to dole out more food, Miranda enters the house and returns with a tray of water glasses. She places the tray on the porch’s small table and Flint joins her, nodding his thanks as he takes a glass.  

“He should be more verbal,” she muses.

“I don’t know, he’s certainly talking Hector’s ear off.”

He nods toward the yard, watching as Silver murmurs something to the rooster as he offers him an extra-large handful of corn kernels.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. From the way you’d described the John Silver on your crew, I can’t seem to reconcile the two. I expected… something else, I suppose.”

_I did as well._

She sits, taking a glass for herself.

“He’s very clever, of course. That goes without saying.”

Flint drops into the chair across from her. “Too clever, if you ask me.”

“Indeed. Birds of a feather, I think,” she says, smiling over the rim of her glass. “He seems to have charmed Hector, and you as well, going by the way you practically eat out of his hand.”

“He doesn’t… I don’t…” Flint pauses, realizing he’s stuttering. “He isn’t _manipulating_ me, Miranda.”

“Manipulating? Do you truly believe him to be that devious?”

“You don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“So, this is a ploy? A toddler’s wicked attempt to ingratiate himself to you?”

Flint crosses his arms, frowning.

“Possibly.”

“You do realize that people are actually capable of _liking_ you? Loving you, even, if you allow it. Not everyone wishes you harm.”

When he doesn’t respond, she exhales softly.         

“Whatever you want to do, I will support you. But you’ll need to make a decision in the coming days. This is unsustainable—you must understand that?”

“If you want him to leave, I have no problem marching him straight down to--”

Miranda reaches out to touch his cheek, her gaze warm and knowing. He hates her a little bit, for understanding him so well.

“ _James_. You will absolutely do no such thing.”

Flint sighs heavily.

A loud ruckus draws his attention back to the yard, the chickens kicking up a cloud of dust and feathers as they flee to the four corners of the lawn.

Silver stands in the middle of the avian melee, seemly frozen by the presence of a young rooster who flutters aggressively at him. The boy’s mouth opens and closes, as if he wants to scream but can’t quite catch his breath. The bird jumps at him, its talons catching against his shirt and pants as Silver tries to back away but trips over a clod of dirt.

Flint finds himself running across the yard long before he even realizes he’s stood up.

He puts himself between Silver and the rooster, hoisting the boy into his arms as he kicks at the ornery creature, jarring it enough to send it darting away.  

“Are you hurt?” Flint asks frantically.

He turns Silver’s head toward him, checking his face and cheeks for wounds. The boy appears to be more stunned than injured, though his bottom lip starts to tremble precariously when he takes notice of a long bloody scratch on his left arm. He looks at Flint, wide-eyed and pale.

 _I’m dying,_ his teary gaze declares. _Am I dying?_

“It’s fine, you’ll be fine,” Flint offers, trying to calm the boy as rage boils in his gut.

 _Fucking bird_.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. That was Ajax. He looks a lot like Hector, but he’s a hellfiend who thinks he runs things here. I should have realized he’d gotten out into the yard.”

Miranda nears, gently taking hold of Silver’s arm. She rotates it, checking to see how deep the cut goes. It’s bleeding sluggishly, both of their shirts already stained with drops of red, but the scratch shouldn’t require any serious treatment.

“Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, hmm?” she says soothingly.

Flint carries Silver into the house, glaring down as Ajax pecks happily at the loose feed scattered at their feet.

Later that evening, when Miranda suggests stewed rooster for supper, Flint is more than happy to oblige.

 

*   *   *

 

Miranda leaves for church early Sunday morning.

Flint knows she attends to maintain appearances, her time amid the congregation a fruitless attempt to belay their inane but long-held fears toward her.

_Toward him._

He watches her go, still slumped at the kitchen table drinking the gritty remains of his breakfast tea. Silver sits in his lap, drowsily munching on a piece of toasted bread as he tries to keep his eyes open. Alone with Silver for the first time in days, Flint isn’t quite sure what to do. There’s no ship to run, no errands in imminent need of completion. It’s supposed to be a day of rest before he sets sail, but he feels twitchy at the prospect of sitting inside.

“Have you ever seen a sea turtle?” he asks, staring down at the top of Silver’s disheveled hair.

A short while later, Flint packs a bag and leaves a note for Miranda. They take a horse west, away from Nassau but toward the ocean, heading for a familiar patch of bare shoreline where he and Miranda sometimes walk. It’s a lovely day and they make good time, the skyline hued a deep sapphire as they near the water.

Flint ties the horse to a tree in the shade, then walks with Silver over the scrubby dunes. The tide has already dropped, matted clumps of seaweed splayed across the beach. He lays a blanket down above the waterline, then unpacks their lunch. The provisions aren’t much—cheese and bread, two apples—but they finish it off quickly, sharing water from a canteen. He hands Silver the garden trowel, and the boy starts to dig indiscriminately in the sand near their blanket.

Flint reads for a time, enjoying the peace as a warm breeze ruffles the pages of his book.

After leaving behind a dozen half-dug holes, Silver starts to meander closer to the shoreline, poking at the seaweed with his trowel. He picks up shells, inspecting them carefully for flaws, then either tosses them back into the water or slips them into his pockets. A group of turtles are sprawled on the sand in the distance, but Silver only watches them from afar, unwilling to approach the bulky creatures.

He ventures closer to the tideline, water brushing his toes as he steps farther out in search of more shells.

A larger wave crests above the others, racing inland quicker than Flint can open his mouth to call out, and the swell cuts Silver off at the knees. The boy falls backward, arms flailing as he hits the sand. Silver coughs and rubs the sting from his eyes as the wave recedes, his hair sticking to the sides of his face.

Flint can’t help the snicker that escapes him as he stands.

Silver looks like a drowned cat—both confused and vexed by the seaside indignity he’s just suffered.

Another wave builds and Flint steps closer, intending to pull Silver from its path. He grasps Silver’s arm but the boy rolls back suddenly, dragging Flint forward. Caught off balance by his own momentum, Flint’s next step lands on a ledge of loose sand and he stumbles, crashing down onto his hands and knees.

The wave washes over him, soaking him to the bone.

Flint gags, saltwater burning the back of his throat. Silver stands a few feet behind him, watching with a satisfied smirk as Flint plucks dejectedly at his sodden shirt.

“You rotten little _shit_ ,” Flint barks, water lapping at his ankles.

There’s no real bite to the words, try as he might.

He staggers to his feet and reaches for Silver, but the boy dodges away, the wet fabric of his shirt slipping through Flint’s fingers.

He growls in frustration and Silver giggles.

Flint’s eyebrows raise, the sound so foreign to him he wonders if he’s imagined it. But when he reaches for Silver again, and Silver laughs, Flint finds himself inexplicably smiling. He darts forward in a burst of speed, both hands wrapping around Silver’s waist as he plucks him off the sand and into the air. Silver’s eyes go wide and he twists to get away, his giggles transforming into an uncontrollable squeal as Flint discovers the boy is ticklish.

_Vengeance—sweet vengeance._

Flint finally shows mercy, shifting Silver to dangle under his arm as he carries him sideways like a sack of potatoes up to their blanket.  

He plops Silver down, dropping to sit next to him, breathing harder than he’d care to admit. Silver falls over like a beached starfish, his face pink from laughing. Flint huffs, then takes a sip from the canteen. He offers the container to Silver, who drinks heavily and then pulls back to cough as water runs down his chin.

They return to the house that evening exhausted and sun weary.

After they eat, Flint and Miranda share a drink as Silver lines his pocketed treasures upon the kitchen table across from them. He organizes his cache by size, followed by color, small rocks and drift seeds mingling with the shells. He selects an oval piece of blue sea glass from the heap and wipes it clean, then stretches himself as far as he can across the table, offering it to Miranda.

She meets him halfway and he drops the shard into her hand.

“For me?” she asks, taken aback.

Silver nods and returns to meticulously shorting his shells.

“It’s lovely. Thank you, John.”

She arches an eyebrow at Flint, lips pursing as she takes a drink.

“Is there one for me?” Flint asks, leaning down to stare at the assortment of ocean baubles. It only seems fair, after all, considering he’s the one who took Silver to the beach in the first place.

Silver glances up, then back down at his pile. After some contemplation, a cream-hued shell with spiky orange protrusions is pushed in Flint’s direction.

Miranda nearly chokes on her brandy.

The night grows more comfortable the later it gets, the familiar chime of the mantle clock a sluggish but somber remember that Flint is avoiding the inevitable. When he finally finishes the last remnants of his drink and stands, he doesn’t look at Silver as he walks to retrieve the packed satchel hanging near the door.

“How long will you be gone?” Miranda asks.

“A week or more. We’ll sail south to Port Royal first, then Antiqua if necessary.”

Silver slides his shells around the table, pretending to ignore them.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? What if--”

“We need to know how far this has spread. If it… if it can be _cured_. Perhaps one of the larger port cities will have conceived of a treatment.”

“A remedy for spontaneous youthfulness?”

Flint shrugs, shouldering the bag. “We have to try something. Thank you—by the way. I know I’m saddling you with a burden.”

“He’s… it’s not a burden, James.”

As the scratching against the table stops, Flint clears his throat, finally looking in the boy’s direction.  

“Silver, you’re to stay here with Miranda while I’m gone. There will be no arguing, not this time.”

Flint doesn’t know what he expects, but it’s certainly not Silver dropping down from his chair and entangling his arms around Flint’s knees. Silver’s grip tightens as Flint bends, gently prying the boy’s hands away as he picks him up.

“No—none of that, do you hear me? This is just for a little while, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Flint transfers Silver to Miranda, who’s come to stand behind him, quietly watching them both. As Flint lets go, Silver begins to openly sob. The noise bellows out of him, raw and uncontrolled, and he reaches for Flint as he struggles against Miranda’s grip.

Flint feels like a brand has been driven through his chest, pain radiating from behind his ribs like an open wound.

 _It’s only been a fucking week_.

Silver cannot possibly be this attached. His fascination with Flint will pass, just like it always does when it comes to the nebulous whims of Silver's life. He’ll find a place for the boy to go when this is over, somewhere far beyond the cesspool of Nassau.

He's made allies over the years, merchants and tradesmen across the West Indies who are fundamentally decent men. Associates who would be more than willing to accept Silver into their families, if Flint called in the right favors.

_A real life, away from the chaos of the sea._

In a week’s time—a month perhaps—Silver will have forgotten him all together.

Flint walks to the front door, pulling the handle so forcefully it rattles the panes of window glass above it. He stands at the threshold, looking out onto the porch as Silver’s cries suddenly cease, the shaky exhales evolving into something quieter yet no less devastating.

Silver is pleading a single word, over and over.

_“No! Nooo! No no no nononono!"_

Flint hesitates, swallowing back his uncertainty. His _weakness_.

It’s madness, adhering oneself to something so impermanent. To consider jeopardizing his plans for Nassau—to negate on a decade of blood and sweat and focused rage—simply because he feels beholden to a misguided inkling of paternal sentiment. Only a fool would even contemplate it.

And yet he wants to.

 _Jesus_ , does he want to.

Flint steps forward and shuts the door behind him.

 

*   *   *

 


	4. Chapter 4

*   *   *

                                                                                                                        

It’s storming when Flint returns to Nassau, the remnants of a passing squall pelting the deck with hail as the warship drops anchor in the harbor, the sky above a steely gray.

The rain has brought a chill to the island, such cold unusual this time of year, and it feels like an ill omen as Flint departs the docks, adjusting his coat against the biting wind. It’s well after midnight when he finally arrives at the cottage, the house lit only by the tawny glow of fading firelight.

Miranda sits in a rocking chair near the hearth, Silver cradled in her lap as she turns the weathered pages of a book. She looks up at the sound of the door opening, relief washing over her face. She glances back down and thumbs to the next page, her lilting voice never pausing, as if she’s long memorized the words. Silver’s head is tucked under Miranda’s chin, his fingers clutching mindlessly at a cameo necklace that dangles just above the collar of her nightgown.

He blinks languidly as she reads, half-asleep but fiercely fighting the inevitable.

Flint isn’t familiar with the story, some tale of a monstrous beast roaming the moors of an imaginary isle, but he recognizes the volume from Miranda’s personal collection. Silver is inexplicably enthralled by the book, his drowsy attention fixated upon a series of lined sketches engraved upon the yellowed paper.

Flint places his satchel on the table under the kitchen window and digs free a small wrapped package. As he approaches the rocking chair, Miranda stops reading and shifts forward, jostling Silver from his reverie.

Flint fiddles with the package, his eyes settling on Miranda when he finds that Silver is conspicuously avoiding his gaze.

“How have you been?”

She runs a hand across her forehead, smoothing down a patch of stray hairs.  

“We’ve had an interesting few days, to say the least. Was your trip successful?”

Flint shakes his head, rubbing a palm absently behind his neck as he tells her of their discovery. The pandemic is localized to the island, it seems; no widespread chaos to be found elsewhere. And _by_ _God_ , the confounded stares they had received when they’d inquired. Whatever the cause, the discord appears to be theirs alone.

She nods evenly at the news, peering toward the fire.

Flint clears his throat and inches closer.

“Were you good for Miranda?” he asks Silver.

Silver doesn’t turn, deliberately focused on the necklace in his hand.

Flint crouches next to the rocking chair and unwraps the package, pulling back the paper to reveal a mound of candied fruits and nuts. He chooses a dried apple wedge coated with molasses glaze and offers it to Silver.

“I found these at a confectionery shop in Port Royal, and I thought you might enjoy them. Would you like to try one?”

Silver still refuses to look at him.

Flint deserves this, he knows, but it stings nonetheless. The cloying scent of sugar overtakes his senses and he suddenly feels like a fool, offering sweets as a means of placation. Was it not his original intention to wean Silver off of such needless affections?

He half expects Miranda to intercede on his behalf, to coax Silver into trying one of the treats, but she only rises from her chair, Silver’s legs tangled around her waist.

“Time for bed,” she murmurs, setting the book on the cushion behind her.

She carries Silver through the darkened hallway and disappears into the spare bedroom, shutting the door gently behind her.

Flint stands and re-wraps the package, sliding it back into his satchel.

 _Perhaps_ _tomorrow_. 

Miranda returns some minutes later, joining him at the dining room table as he rolls a glass of brandy between his palms. She touches his shoulder, squeezing as she sits opposite him.

“I’m glad you’re home. The journey was safe, I take it?”

“Easy enough, once the fear dissipated. The men didn’t sleep the first few days, dreading they’d wake up changed.”

“And did they?”                                                 

“No, thank Christ. I returned with the same crew I departed with.” Flint takes a drink, savoring the heady burn of proper alcohol. “I’m sorry for the way I left. I know he must have given you hell.”

“Yes—but it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What did he do? We both know he’s a little shit, there’s no need to deny it.”

She sighs.

“I’m not _you_ , James.”

“What exactly does that mean?”          

“I tried my best to comfort him after you were gone, but he didn’t— _doesn’t_ —seem interested. John tolerates me, and abhors other people. I don’t honestly know what kind of spell you cast over him, but it’s unnerving.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything. He just… did you say other people?”

Miranda shrugs faintly.

“He didn’t take kindly to Pastor Lambrick’s visit, nor his suggestion that I bequeath John to one of the families at the parish,” she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. “The calamitous absence of a paternal figure overseeing the household, and all that.”

“Lambrick can go fuck himself.”

“I believe that’s what John suggested to the Shepherd as well, in his own way. Were you aware he bites?”

Flint smirks at that, staring down at his glass.

They’re both quiet for a time, the fire still stubbornly crackling in the hearth.

“He cried himself sick the night you left,” she offers softly. “He’s barely eaten since then, hasn’t sleep more than a few hours— _I_ haven’t slept more than a few hours.”

“I didn’t mean to bring this to our doorstep, Miranda.”

“I’m not angry with you--”

“It was a _mistake_ , and I see that now. This isn’t the kind of life I wanted. I wasn’t… I wasn't thinking clearly.”

Miranda watches him with weary eyes, her features growing more pinched as she considers his words. She finally glances away, slowly rising from her chair.  

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, James.”

When she retreats into their bedroom, Flint pours himself another glass.

 

*   *   *                             

 

They spend the next morning in arduous silence, both Silver and Miranda finding new and inventive ways to avoid him as the hours pass.

Silver hovers in Miranda’s orbit mostly, maintaining a distance from Flint even when they share a room. He’s no longer hiding behind chairs and oversized trunks, but neither is he willing to wander too close, nor acknowledge Flint’s idle small talk.

Silver’s newly cultivated apathy feels like death by a thousand cuts.

Miranda is cordial, though she simmers in unrepressed anger the moment he tells her of his intention to return Silver to Nassau. They argue, out back by the hen house, and she grows more distant as the day ebbs quickly into afternoon.

She refuses to speak to Flint as he later saddles the horse.

Silver hesitates when Miranda tells him goodbye, his body frozen as she presses a hand against his temple. He seems to want to acknowledge her when she bends and kisses his cheek, though he can’t quite find the right response. He doesn’t pull away from the touch, which is, Flint reasons, acknowledgement enough. As they ride off, Flint can’t help but notice the way Silver turns back toward the cottage, some enigmatic emotion twisting his features.

The Guthrie crèche has been relocated to one of the shipping warehouses behind the tavern, cleared of its stores so new beds and cradles can be lined against the walls. The children are rambunctious and loud, their hyperactivity heightened by the approaching sunset.

Flint dismounts the horse and ties it to a post nearby, Silver rigid in his arms.

He wishes he could say he’s sorry, that this isn’t what he would have wanted, had their lives been different. But he can’t bring himself to offer such meaningless condolences. He’s not even sure Silver would understand—nor care, especially now.

_Silver doesn’t belong here. He’s not like them._

“This is for the best,” Flint says instead.

He places Silver next to him and the boy stands unmoving, staring anywhere but at Flint.

“Go on then,” Flint murmurs, the words sticking in his throat.

Silver’s fists tighten, but he doesn’t look back as he willingly enters the warehouse.

Flint nods at the teenage attendant standing near the door, one of the local boys who carries messages for Eleanor. Flint tells him Silver’s name and age—before the event and after, or as close to it as he can figure—then offers whatever meager information he has about Silver’s known history.

The boy scratches something down in a small notebook, and Flint wonders what kind of records Eleanor is retaining on her growing brigade of children.

“Keep both eyes on that one,” he commands, slipping a coin into the attendant’s palm before walking away.

Flint drinks at the inn that night. It’s not his usual haunt, but the shouts of the children in the warehouse are too loud at the tavern, and he needs to get pissed in relative peace. The whores avoid him, milling around but none approaching, the more experienced amongst them keeping the newer girls at bay. Ten years is a long time to shun them.

 _They’re smarter than most would ever give them credit for_ , he thinks, ordering his seventh mug of the night.

The drink is gone in seconds, the grog burning Flint’s throat as it sinks into an empty stomach.

He’s been here for hours already, escaping his responsibilities when he should be preparing for their next hunt. The crew is getting restless, and the beach recruitment efforts have finally pilfered some worthwhile candidates. He’d almost be pleased, if it wasn’t for the ache in his gut that has nothing to do with the bitter swill he’s consuming.

Flint is drunk when he stands to leave, a faint list to his step the only indicator anything is amiss. The crowd parts around him, the regulars wisely ignoring him as he ambles toward the door. He stops near the threshold, catching sight of Jack Rackham slumped in a corner booth a few feet away. He looks unconcerned about the mess he's making, drinking deeply from an oversized tankard and then slamming it back down with little finesse. 

Rackham appears to be alone, but as Flint veers closer he realizes the other man is surrounded on both sides.

Bonny lies on her back atop the bench, her ankles propped up on Rackham’s left thigh. Flint guesses she’s about nine years old, now that he can actually see her stretched out—oddly tall, and older than most of the other children after the change. Her oversized hat is pulled low over her face, covering everything save her stringy red hair. She wears a small pair of boots that go up past her knees and a dark jacket that looks sturdy if haphazardly stitched, likely by Rackham himself.

Her stillness indicates she’s asleep, but one never quite knows with Bonny.

Vane is coiled up on the right, his head resting against Rackham's bent knee. He’s snoring softly, a thumb curled inside his mouth, and he seems to be wearing the same burlap sack as the day in the market. Unlike before, his feet are covered by a thin pair of dingy shoes, which Flint assumes to be a small victory on Rackham’s part.

Flint frowns down at the peculiar triad.

He’s never much liked Rackham, the man’s persnickety cleverness as off-putting as it was dangerous. Tonight, however, there’s an edge to the former quartermaster that gives Flint pause.

He recognizes rage when he sees it.         

Rackham’s quiet ire is aimed at the bar, his focus centered upon a stocky man who stands talking to a group of four others. Flint doesn’t know any of them personally, but Nassau isn’t exactly notorious for its friendly neighbor policy. Strangers and travelers of all sorts tend to arrive and then vanish, quick as morning fog.

It takes Rackham nearly a full minute to recognize Flint’s presence. When he does, his surprised squint quickly morphs into a scowl.

“May I help you?”               

Flint snorts, ignoring the snippy tone. “You have the look of a man about to start something.” He gestures offhandedly toward the children. “Perhaps now isn’t the time?”

Rackham processes what Flint is implying, then bristles.

“Trust me, I have no intention of _starting_ anything.”

“Tonight,” Flint finishes.

Rackham picks up his mug and takes another drink, his attention slipping back to the stranger at the bar.

“If you’re going to murder a man, I suspect you have a good reason?”

Rackham doesn’t look at Flint—doesn’t look at the children slumbering next to him, nor the patrons around him. He only watches the man.

Flint shakes his head and steps away, the silence enough for him.

Rackham’s voice stops him cold.

“He tried to buy them.”

Flint glances back, the words sinking into his bones.

“What?”

Rackham’s eyes flicker upward, narrow and furious. 

“Anne and Charles. That piece of horseshit _tried to buy them_. He had the fucking audacity to ask me how much I wanted, as if they were chattel to be sold. He thought I--”

Rackham stops himself from saying more, clearly unwilling to utter the next vile part aloud. The men around the bar laugh at some shared joke, and Flint studies them carefully, the noise of the room growing louder. When he finally turns back, he meets Rackham’s gaze.

“Should you _wish_ to start something, tonight or otherwise, you know where to find me.”

Rackham regards him a long moment, then nods.

“I will most certainly keep that in mind, Captain.”

 

*   *   *

 

The hour is late when Flint departs the inn, later still as he finds himself stumbling past the Guthrie crèche for the third time.

His horse is hitched nearby, and he’ll need to pay one of Eleanor’s boys to stable it for the night, but for now he rounds the warehouse yet again, shouldering past anyone foolish enough to meander into his path.

 _I didn't ask for this,_ Flint thinks, lurching into the side of an overturned wagon.

_I didn't fucking want this._

He doesn’t notice he’s being followed until he’s shoved into an empty alley.

Flint hits the dirt face-first, his graceless sprawl illuminated by a lone torch affixed to the stone wall above his head. He’s too inebriated to react properly—no amount of feigned drunken dignity can save him here—and he curses himself as he rolls over, blood running freely from his nose.

Above him, a man’s raspy voice chuckles.

“If it ain’t Captain James Flint, out for a fuckin’ stroll.”

A boot strikes him in the side and Flint reels, scrambling upward as he clutches at his ribs. He draws his pistol but a thick object—a board perhaps, or a cudgel—strikes down against his wrist, knocking the weapon from his grip. It lands somewhere in the darkness, out of his reach.  

Flint snarls, grasping for his sword.

“ _Jones_.”

The interloper steps back to drop the plank he’s wielding, then frees his own pistol from its holster. He’s a few years older than Flint, and rounder around the middle. Too many years of hard drinking and not enough exertion—little has changed in the past decade. It had taken Flint all of two months to procure his own ship and crew after he’d arrived in Nassau, both of which Jones had unwittingly provided.

“Fuckin’ Flint. Been waitin’ a long time for this, you insufferable prick. This whole island shits itself in fear over you, but I aim to show them you’re nothin’ but a limey thief.”

Flint spits blood. “Your crew came crawling to me, once they saw what a simpering coward you were.”

The older man cocks his pistol and Flint weaves, his ribs protesting fiercely as the gun fires over his shoulder. He swings his sword in turn, needing to end this quickly. Jones is a fucking coward, but he’s a decent swordsman, and Flint is already disadvantaged. Jones deftly avoids the blade, however, pushing Flint out of the way as he draws his own cutlass. Flint sways but strikes out with a fist, catching the other man across the face. It’s a strong blow, and Jones careens backward, his nose twisted and bleeding.

Flint advances on Jones but freezes, the sudden scent of rum-soaked breath his only warning that he and Jones are no longer alone.

The dagger catches Flint under the ribs on his left side, the blade tearing deeply into the outer layers of his coat. He feels the sickening pull of torn flesh as he spins toward his attacker, thrusting his sword straight into the stranger’s gut. The accomplice screams, caught on the weapon as Flint tugs it out of the man’s shaking body.

Flint pivots quickly, just as something heavy strikes him across the side of the head.

His knees buckle and he lands on his back, his sword tumbling from his grasp. Flint watches in a daze as Jones shambles closer, the man’s pocked face a swollen, bloody mess. The older man has lost his cutlass as well, but he throws himself down atop Flint, hands encircling his throat. Flint thrashes, his lungs unable to draw breath as his legs kick out at nothing. Jones is heavy, his weight settling onto Flint’s cracked ribs, and Flint cries out as blinding pain engulfs his chest. His fingernails dig into Jones’ face, trying to gouge his eyes, but Jones pulls back out of his reach.

Flint knows he’s going to die the same moment Jones screams.

Out of the shadows, a small dark blur propels itself between the two of them, latching onto Jones.

The grip around Flint’s neck loosens and he rolls, gasping for breath as he frantically searches for his sword. He swipes at the blood in his eyes, watching as Jones flails above him, struggling against the wraith that’s entangled itself around his arm.

Flint feels himself grow cold.

_Oh God, no, no please..._

_Silver._

Jones hobbles to his feet, cursing wildly as Silver viciously clings to him, the boy's teeth digging into his forearm. 

"You little fucker!" Jones snarls, gripping Silver by the back of the hair and pulling him free.

He tosses Silver against the alley wall, and the boy slumps to the ground.

Flint heaves himself upright, the brief distraction providing enough time to drive his sword into Jones’ unprotected belly. The older man inhales sharply as Flint draws the blade upward, stopping only when it catches against Jones’ sternum. He wrenches the sword free and Jones falls, gagging wetly on his own loose innards.

Flint turns, searching for Silver.

He takes a step but everything tilts, his knees folding under him as he topples sideways. Blood pools on the ground below him as he crawls toward the wall, fingers dragging against the dirt. His vision tunnels, but he can’t stop moving, can’t stop looking. It’s dark, darker than it should be with the flames of a torch so close by, and he tries to force back the mounting dread that’s wrapped itself around his chest like a snare.

 _Fuck no, please no,_ he hears himself begging, but he doesn’t know if the words are spoken aloud or only in his head. He’s reaching and he can’t find Silver, he can’t see where Silver is, and this is his fucking fault, it’s all his fault, it’s all—

Flint’s arms give out and he collapses, the energy draining from his body.

 _Silver_ , _please…_

A shadow drifts into his peripheral and Flint can’t make out the distorted figure that hovers above him, sobbing his name.

He closes his eyes, the growing lull inside his mind overtaking all of his thoughts, his fears. Every staggered heartbeat is a fissure in the swelling silence; the sound dimming further with each agonized breath. The echoed noise of distant crying fades, swallowed up by the pervasive hush now creeping into his consciousness.  

_I’m sorry... I’m so fucking sorry..._

Flint lets the darkness take him.

 

 

*   *   *


	5. Chapter 5

*   *   *

_“I’m afraid.”_

_She watches him from across the riverbank, swollen currents of starry blackness lapping against the pebbled shore. It’s quiet in this place, the echoing roar of the water between them nearly swallowed by the sound of his whispered words._

_“Afraid of what, sweet boy?” she asks, her voice as familiar to him as the sea._

_“Of being alone.”_

_“But you are not alone.”_

_He shakes his head, wisps of foggy darkness curling around him._

_“Please, just one visit. We can be together.”_

_“You cannot cross, my love.”_

_“Why?”_

_She smiles knowingly, infinitely beautiful as she bends and dips a hand into the rushing swell, starlight slipping through her fingertips._

_“Because you are needed.”_

*   *    *

 

Flint wakes to the furious volley of his own heartbeat.

Candlelight flickers over his shoulder, pale brightness pushing against the shadows of a room he doesn’t recognize, the walls around him a lurid blur of clashing colors. He closes his eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning. Every part of him feels battered—every inhale a new agony—and he wonders if this is all there is now. A feeble body, dashed time and time against the rocky shoals of an unsought life, gasping desperately for one last breath before it’s finally pulled beneath the roiling waves.

He lies still for a long moment, the pounding in his chest slowly ebbing as his soul is begrudgingly dragged back to shore.

 _Resurrection shouldn’t be this amenable_ , he thinks. _Nor_ _this fucking gaudy._

He’s on a bed that’s not his own, an oversized four-poster eyesore with preening swans and buxom women carved into the footboard. A tasseled canopy sags above it all, its faded chartreuse fabric tattered and dusty. The air is thick with incense, an earthy mixture of teakwood and rose that does little to hide the underlying stench of sex and rotting timber. Though the garish chamber is unfamiliar, he knows without a doubt he’s somehow found himself in one of the inn’s more decadent accommodations.

The _why,_ however.

Now that part escapes him.

He’s wounded, that much is abundantly clear as he tilts his chin to stare at the bandage encircling his ribs. The cloth is soiled with dry blood, a brown patch no bigger than the palm of his hand, but the stain doesn’t appear to be growing. He isn’t going to bleed to death, at least not any time soon.  

Flint can’t decide if the ache in his head or his side is worse until he tries to sit up—and _oh fuck_ , his side, most definitely his side.

 _Fuck_.

“You’re awake.”        

He turns at the sound, more startled than he cares to admit by the realization he’s not alone. Eleanor unfurls herself from the depths of a bulky armchair, knees folded loosely beneath her wrinkled skirt. She looks exhausted, her usually plaited hair dangling loose against her shoulders.

“Th’ fuck happen’d?” he blurts, his throat unbearably raw.

Eleanor’s eyes narrow. 

“ _What the fuck happened_? Jesus fucking Christ, Flint. You killed two people tonight.”

Flint frowns, then winces in discomfort.

“That… seems plausible.”

“You’ve got to be the luckiest goddamn man I’ve ever met, you know that? You wouldn’t have made it out of that alley had the rest of Nassau not loathed Jones as much as you did. What the hell were you thinking?”

_Jones?_

The fight comes back to Flint in disordered pieces, stilted memories of a tussle and a stranger attacking him with a blade. He recalls being choked—the sensation of air trapped in his lungs, desperate to draw even a single breath. He was going to die in that moment; he’d known it with indisputable certainty. Jones was going to kill him.

But he can’t for the life of him remember how he managed to get away.

_Jones had screamed._

“Flint?”

_He’d pulled away, struggling._

Eleanor is speaking, but he can’t hear her over the deafening roar of his own thoughts.

_Silver._

_Jones had been struggling with Silver._

_Oh, God._

“Flint, look at me.”

_He’d left him out there, alone in the dark._

“Flint! Jesus Christ—Silver is _alive_. Do you hear me?”

Flint startles, blinking up at her in confusion.

“ _No_ , I saw him, Eleanor. I saw Jones throw Silver--”

“Yes, and he’s a little banged up, I’ll grant you, but he’s going to be fine. He’s been fretting over _you_ all night, actually. It would’ve been endearing, had the little bastard not thrown a vase at me for trying to check your wounds.”

She nods over her shoulder and Flint follows her gaze, the groundswell of panic receding as he catches sight of Silver curled up in the middle of a burgundy chaise.

The boy sleeps deeply, undisturbed by their conversation.

“My men found him standing over you, blood-soaked and snapping at anyone who dared to get too close. They managed to pull him away, but he screeched himself hoarse until I had him brought here. I cleaned him up as best as I could, but he’s in dire need of a bath.”

Flint grimaces as he pulls himself upright, planting his bare feet against the floor. Eleanor doesn’t try to stop him—she knows him too well at this point—but she does offer him an arm to lean on. He rises slowly, gripping one of the bed’s posts to steady himself. He tries not to scream at the pain, but it’s a near thing.

The walk to the couch is excruciating, and Flint stumbles the last few steps, gracelessly sinking to his knees next to the chaise. He rests his palm against the top of Silver’s head, running a thumb along the boy’s forehead. Silver’s eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake at the touch.

There’s no noticeable injury to his head, as far as Flint can tell, the flecks of blood that dot his hairline most likely belonging to Jones or even Flint himself. Silver’s bottom lip is puffy, however, the delicate flesh split sometime during the struggle. He’s bruised and dirty, mostly, his face a pallid hue beneath the grim, but he’s very much alive.

“Thank you,” he says, tipping his head in Eleanor’s direction.

He glances back down and repeats it, softer still, at the boy slumbering in front of him.

 

*   *   *

 

Flint drifts in fitful sleep, stirring shortly before sunrise. A cock crows somewhere in the indigo darkness beyond the open window, but it’s not the bird’s morning ruckus that wakes him.

Across the room, Silver whimpers in his sleep.

Flint sits up, the ache in his side noticeably worse now that the shock of the attack has finally faded. He lifts the baggy shirt he’s been provided, the dressings beneath itchy as hell but decidedly clean. As long as he doesn’t move—or _fucking_ _breathe_ —he should be fine.

 _Don’t pull your sutures_ , Eleanor had ordered as she’d left some hours ago, tossing the shirt in the general direction of his bruised face. _This is going on your tab if you bleed through it._

Silver cries out again, his distress growing deeper with each passing second, and Flint shifts himself to the edge of the bed. He winces as he slides his legs cautiously over the side of the mattress, his breath catching at each new agonizing movement.

His toes have barely touched the floor when Silver begins to scream.

Flint jolts to his feet, all of his aches forgotten as he pads quickly toward the chaise. He perches himself at the edge of the ratty cushion, helplessly watching as Silver thrashes, a blanket twisted around his scraped knees. Flint cups the side of Silver’s drawn face, fingertips brushing across the boy’s brow as he smooths back an errant curl. Silver trembles weakly, his body warm but thankfully not feverish.

He abhors the idea of Silver continuing in such a state, alone and adrift in a sea of endless horrors, but he hesitates to wake him outright. He knows the fear, the utter disorientation, that tends to follow such nightmares, when one is so unceremoniously forced back into the land of the living. As bad as they are, the dreams will likely pass on their own.

The boy whines, shifting restlessly.  

“ _Shhh_ ,” Flint whispers, stroking his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Silver quiets at the gentle caress, curling inward as Flint continues to murmur softly, trite words of comfort slipping from his lips. _Lies_ , he thinks, though he can’t bring himself to actually stop.

He almost doesn’t notice when Silver wakes—the change so abrupt it takes Flint by surprise. The boy’s eyes open and his gaze focuses somewhere beyond Flint’s shoulder, caught at the precipice of wakefulness as tears slip unabated down his cheeks, soaking the raggedy pillow beneath his head.

“Hey now, _hey_ —you’re alright, you’re safe.”

Flint tilts his head, trying to draw Silver’s attention, but the boy blinks past him, sluggish and sleepy as he runs a fist across his eyes. Silver’s blank expression eventually falters, some semblance of awareness finally overtaking him as he tries to roll over but finds himself too tangled in the blanket to get very far.

When Flint leans down to help, Silver recoils at the touch.

Flint pulls his hand back and smiles gently—meekly—but the greeting earns no reaction from Silver, who stares at Flint like he would a ghost. _Or a nightmare, made flesh and bone,_ Flint thinks, watching as the boy sits upright.

Silver studies Flint a tense moment, more confused than comforted by his presence, it seems. He’s not angry, Flint notes with some relief. The apathy Silver had been harboring after their departure from the cottage has all but vanished. He’d almost think it progress, were it not for the weary exhaustion that’s instead taken its place.

Flint swallows, forcing himself not to turn away.

_You did this. At least have the goddamn courage to face it._

There’s nothing he can say, he knows. No promises left to make that might undo the damage he’s caused these past few weeks. It’s poisonous, his rage. His _darkness_. Insatiable and merciless as it taints the world around him, inevitably devouring everything he holds dear.

His love is a ruinous thing.

“I’m sorry,” Flint offers, weakly. 

Silver looks away, fresh tears welling in his eyes.

Flint reaches out, an impulsive gesture that’s met with furious resistance as the boy pulls away from him, pushing himself back against the cushions. He won’t acknowledge Flint, won’t speak. Silver’s angry rebuttal may be lost to a stubbornly silent tongue, but Flint comprehends it all the same: _I hate you._

He’s grateful, in a small way, for never having to hear those words spoken aloud.

“This isn’t what I _wanted_ , you have to know that. I don’t know why you saved me, but this isn’t--"

Silver turns sharply, striking Flint against the chest with a clenched fist. Flint grimaces, the blow landing just above his injured ribs, but he doesn’t try to prevent the next hit, or the one that follows. The boy begins to shriek at him, wordless and visceral and raw, frustrated all the more by Flint’s refusal to react.

He _deserves_ Silver’s hatred. Let the boy despise him, if that’s what it takes to free himself from Flint’s destructive orbit.

 _Run,_ Flint thinks.

Silver swings at him again, his movements growing more frantic. He doesn’t stop until something small tumbles from one of his unfurled fists, the object landing with an audible _crack_ against the floorboards. Silver freezes at the sound, his empty palm now curled against Flint’s chest.

On the floor lies a broken seashell.

Flint stares in confusion, a dozen fragmented pieces strewn around his bare feet. The shell is fractured down the middle, its cream-hued base split evenly in two. Smaller orange shards are scattered beneath the chaise, two of the larger protrusions shattered by the fall. The shell had been in Flint’s pocket during his fight with Jones. He’s not sure how Silver found it, or why the boy had kept it.

Why _he_ had kept it.

 _You know why,_ a familiar voice accuses.  

Miranda had known. She’d known where this was leading, from the moment he’d unwittingly dragged Silver into their lives, their home. She’d spent years trying to convince Flint of a future beyond their self-imposed perdition. Pleaded with him that happiness could still be found, even after a decade of boundless misery and blood.

She had never _stopped_ trying, though Flint had long refused to listen.

 _You’re so intent on trading one noble thing for another,_ she’d told him once, their first few months in Nassau a whirlwind of festering grief and resentment. _You simply cannot bear the thought of deserving either one._

Silver won’t look at the damaged shell, Flint notices, his gaze still focused upon his empty palm. The bauble is irreplaceably destroyed, yet he stares as if the shell might suddenly reappear, made whole again by sheer force of will alone. When Silver finally pulls his arm back— _finally comprehends his loss_ —Flint half expects another blow. He waits for the pain to begin anew, but the boy turns from him instead, attempting to scramble off the chaise.

Without thinking, Flint takes hold of Silver’s arm, unwilling to let him pass.

 _To_ _run._

There’s something wild about Silver’s desperation, some vestigial part of him so anxious at the thought of being caged he’d do anything to escape.

Flint had stumbled upon an injured fox once, years ago in the Brighton countryside. Ensnared by the jagged jaws of a hunting trap, the creature had gnawed off its own hind leg in its panic, rending itself free just as Flint had drawn his sword. Utterly indifferent to Flint’s mercy, his _pity_ , the animal had fled, a bloody piece of itself left behind as it hobbled off into the darkening wood.

Probably to die; maybe to live.

The fox hadn’t made a noise, Flint remembers, its golden eyes beset with fear. He sees the same look in Silver’s eyes now, though this isn’t the first time.

The John Silver he’d once known had been an enigma—too clever to be dismissed, too greedy to be trusted. Helpful, when it suited him, and an absolute thorn in Flint’s side when it didn’t. Flint had seen remnants of fear hidden amid Silver’s unending procession of smug grins and guarded truths, tempered though they clearly were by years of practice. A history of boyhood scars that Silver would have always hidden from Flint, even had things been different between them.

They’re alike, Flint understands now. They both recognize the perverse coldness of humanity, the indifference. Silver’s revelation had arrived far earlier than Flint’s own, perhaps, but the outcome is the same. The _knowledge_ is the same. Civilization takes and takes, while heedlessly demanding _more._ More, and more, and _more_ , until there’s nothing left worth salvaging.

Silver wrests back, another futile attempt at freedom, and Flint holds firm.

 _Don’t run,_ he thinks suddenly, his chest tightening _._

Almost as if he can hear Flint’s thoughts, the boy begins to pull harder, wrenching his shoulder as he leans back and digs his heels into Flint’s thigh, trying to leverage himself upward.

_Don’t run._

_Please don’t run._

Silver tugs yet again, fiercer still, and Flint finds himself moving with the motion, bending forward to wrap both hands around Silver’s waist. The boy howls in surprise at the contact, kicking furiously as Flint lifts him and slides them both to the floor, his back pressed against the chaise as shell fragments bite into the soles of his feet.

He holds Silver tightly, arms encircling his back as the child begins to sob, pounding at Flint’s chest as he’s drawn into the embrace.

Miranda had been right about him. She’d _always_ been right, in her own way. He’d never had any interest in choosing between two equally cruel realities. There was no peace, no joy, to be found if one negated the other. Not for him. A life pardoned he could no more survive than a life martyred.

He’d simply never seen a way to have both.

_To deserve both._

_Don’t run_ , he pleads silently, Silver struggling against him.

In the quiet of his contrition, Flint finds himself inexplicably humming.

He’s not sure what he’s singing at first, the muddled lyrics of a half-remembered lullaby forming whisper-like against his lips. The words are choppy and out of tune, a melody conjured out of faded memory that somehow grows more achingly familiar. Silver’s labored breathing starts to wane, weakening with each passing verse.

He shifts restlessly, taut in Flint’s arms.

Flint finishes the song and starts again, his hand running along Silver’s back. When he ends the lullaby for a third time, then a forth, Silver has all but stopped moving, and Flint presses his cheek to the boy’s hair. He’s not asleep; Flint can tell by the way Silver tenses every time there’s a pause in the lyrics, as if he’s waiting for Flint to simply give up. 

Flint continues, his voice nearly gone.

As rosy light begins to pour through the curtains, he senses the change before it happens. Silver stirs in his arms and Flint waits for the inevitable, but the boy only exhales, a deep sigh that reverberates through them both. Silver exhales again, somehow heavier than before, but this time the inhale that follows is softer.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Silver goes slack. He collapses onto Flint’s chest, the instinct to fight unexpectedly and irrevocably burned out of him. Silver’s head lulls against Flint’s shoulder, hiccuped whimpers catching on his neck. He cries softly still, tears and snot soaking both of their collars, but his fingers now clutch at Flint’s shirt like a lifeline, refusing to let him go.

As Silver finally quiets, Flint remembers how to breathe again.

_Don’t run._

_Stay._

Outside the sun rises, and Flint continues to sing.

 

 

*   *   *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s late afternoon when Miranda meets them at the gate, a basket of dusty vegetables under her arm.

She takes in their disheveled appearance with knowing aplomb, eyes flitting slowly between them as Flint limps into the yard, Silver shuffling close beside him. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, though Flint suspects she’s been waiting up all night for them. There’s probably more blood than she imagined, he muses, wincing as he holds a hand against his side. _Then again._

Miranda watches the pair a long moment, then gestures over her shoulder.

“I’ll get the bathtub ready,” she says.

Silver takes her outstretched hand, and Flint follows them both inside the cottage.

                                                     

*   *   *


	6. Epilogue

*   *   *

 

_There’s a calmness to calamity_ , Flint thinks, leaning against the _Walrus’_ railing.

At the outermost perimeter of Nassau’s bay, an empty fishing skiff bobs merrily in the roiling waves, its canvas caught by a strong updraft that drags it ever deeper into open water. A rowboat trails the skiff at a short distance, four irritated fishermen sculling hard against the choppy swells in desperate pursuit. They’re gaining distance, but Flint knows they won’t catch it in time.

 _She’s_ _free_.                             

It’s windy on the quarterdeck, a warm but pleasant breeze pulling at Flint’s hair as he turns his attention back to the rest of the harbor.

Even this far out, he can tell the damage is extensive, though Nassau itself appears to have missed the worst of the storm’s late-night fury. The beach has already been cleared, felled trees and debris piled high along the upper shoreline. A dozen or so smaller boats still float free of their moorings, upturned against the lapping tide or scattered in the bay amid the larger vessels, waiting to be collected like errant children.

There’s an unpleasant brininess to the morning air, a piscine fusion of churned sea and temperate heat that now hovers in a putrid fog above the deck. He’s been trying to ignore it for the past hour, but the smell rises with every wayward wave that crashes upon the lower hull.

Flint closes his eyes, inhaling through his mouth.

It’s been years since he’s felt this seasick; longer still since he’s actively heaved over the side of a ship like an inexperienced cabin boy. Inclement weather had slowed the _Walrus’_ speeds throughout their voyage, an unending barrage of wind and rain pummeling the ship at all hours of the day, the relentless waves wreaking havoc upon a once infallible equilibrium.

Tea had seen Flint through the first few days of misery, his nausea quelled simply by the aroma alone, but as with all things at sea, comfort so rarely lasts. There’d been a leak in his cabin a week into their journey, rainwater gathering too heavily on the sill beneath his window. It had been a minor issue, overall; an inconvenience easy patched. At least until he’d returned to his quarters one night to discover a stream of umber water trickling across the floor, his private cache of tea ruined by the unexpected deluge.

Muldoon had offered him a bag of chicory root shortly after the incident, claiming the herb to be a personal favorite amongst the crew. It had been a kind gesture, though it had nearly gotten the other man a week’s worth of extraneous cleaning duty for his trouble. Flint had stopped himself from issuing the petty order, however, biting his tongue as he’d nodded curtly and taken the sordid gift with the intent of throwing it overboard. Four miserable days later, with no change to the foul weather in sight, Flint had reluctantly found himself drinking boiled chicory water and cursing Muldoon with every bitter sip.

The storms had continued, days and then weeks of the same rain, the same winds. Outrunning one tempest, only to find another waiting on the horizon ahead. Tempers had flared early and often, the men huddled for long hours beneath deck as the skies raged above. Minor squabbles had quickly turned into wars—of both words and fists—and Flint had broken up more than one brawl over spilled rum.

He doesn’t blame them, truthfully, their attitudes more miserable than mutinous.

He’s been short with most of them for weeks now, those closest to him receiving the brunt of his weather-related ire. His new quartermaster has ceased speaking to him altogether, barring any communication relevant to their duties. It’s been an uncomfortable week, certainly, but Flint bears no responsibly for the mess in Antigua, contrary to _numerous_ opinions on the ship.

There will be plenty of time to make amends, once they finally make landfall. The respite will do them all some good.

_Even childish quartermasters, who can’t see fucking reason._

There’s a commotion on the deck below, and Flint turns, anticipating another scuffle, but it’s only a friendly bellow, an honest-to-God laugh. His fingers unclench from the railing. 

The men grow more boisterous as they ready the launch boats, their trivial grievances forgotten as they prepare to depart. They’re less ashen than the day before, persistent grimaces now transformed into smiles at the prospect of solid ground and fresh rations. The swiftness of their work also betrays other needs, though the inn itself won’t open its doors for another few hours.

They’ll queue outside, however, tenacious as ever.

Flint disembarks last, holed up in his cabin until the majority of his men are finally ashore. The fishermen working along the docks pay him little attention as he climbs out of the launch, too busy hauling their remaining nets ashore. Less courteous are the adolescents who scurry past him, their tiny feet thumping loudly against the jetty. Hurrying, Flint knows, to wherever the hell it is that running children are always so intent to go.

He waits for them to pass, then steps onto the sand.

A skeleton crew will see to the ship’s daily needs until they’re relieved, Flint’s mandated furlough already several weeks and growing as hurricane season approaches. The rest of his men are gathered at the beach encampment, sharing drinks and stories with anyone sober enough to stumble out of their tents. They’re pissed already, uproariously laughing as one of the _Walrus’_ newer recruits recounts how they’d managed to outrun an entire French armada off the coast of Newfoundland.

The fiction seems to have grown since the last time Flint heard it, though he passes without comment. A lone Dutch whaling vessel spotted on their decidedly _southbound_ trip hardly constituted a tale worth telling, though the addition of the three-breasted mermaid had been an inspired touch. He’ll have to remember that one. 

 _Stranger_ _things at sea_ , Flint muses.                       

He rummages through his rucksack as he walks, sand crunching beneath his boots.

The book he’s searching for is buried at the bottom of the bag, and it takes Flint a moment to wrest it free from his hastily packed personal effects. The spine is dented at the top, and he bends the edge back with a thumb before checking it yet again for water damage. It’s a slim volume, ridiculously so for the price he’d paid for it, but he’s not about to see it ruined before he even makes it into Nassau proper.

Satisfied by its condition, Flint returns the book to the safety of the rucksack.

He circumvents the main entrance to the market, looping around onto a fenced-lined pathway that runs behind the stalls. There’s a corral to his right, a lone, scrawny cow watching his approach with passive disinterest. It’s not a secret they’ve returned, but Flint prefers to avoid the usual gathering of curious townsfolk.

There’s a widowed seamstress who’s taken a keen interest in him the past year, her shrill laugh following him around Nassau on more than one inconvenient occasion. No matter how many times he’s expressed his disinterest—or blatantly discouraged it—she persists on seeking him out, batting her eyelashes like some helpless maiden in need of rescue. Of course, said rescue will be a long time coming, if Flint has anything to say about it. _May Andromeda stay forever chained to her rock._

The cow watches Flint pass, chewing its cud in silent judgment.

 _You_ _don’t_ _know_ , he glares back, _you’ve never fucking met her_.

There’s a peal of laughter ahead and Flint slows at the noise. It’s not familiar, thank Christ, but the sound of his own name does give him pause. The chatter only grows louder as he nears, a bevy of overlapping voices floating down the pathway.

It’s nearly intelligible, and he sees why when he turns the bend.

A group of youths congregate along the fence at the junction, excitedly talking over each other as they argue. Flint counts seven in total; all boys, as far as he can tell, each one a little more unkempt than the next. Most are too young to be of any real use on a crew, though they’re all old enough to find meaningful work somewhere else. Yet here they gather, shirking their duties in favor of spreading gossip about the _Walrus_.

About _him._

 “--said they had three tits!”

“Mermaids ain’t got three tits, dumbass.”               

“Says you!”

“Nah. They was singing. Tryin’ to get ’em to wreck.”

“That’s a siren.”

“He said Flint was tied to the mast, so they--”

“Flint woulda just shot it.”

“--no it was trying to _lure_ them, and Flint was afraid.”

“Flint ain’t afraid of shite.”

“My ma said he’s half mermaid, that’s why his hair is so--”

“What the feck does tha’ have to do with it?”

“Maybe they were _friends_!”

“Well, _I_ heard a different story.”

“Oh, this’ll be good.”

“Apparently Captain Flint looked the creature straight in the eye--”

“I believe it.”

 “--and told it to fuck off--”

“No!”

 “--and it just swam away, never to be seen again.”

“Do you think— _oh balls_.”                       

One of the youngest notices Flint first, smacking the lad next to him upside the back of the head to shut him up. There’s a chain reaction after that, their conversation lapsing into petrified silence as one by one they turn to face him. Flint ambles closer, savoring every moment of his exaggerated tread.

He stops in front of the tallest of the group, a gangling freckled thing he recognizes as one of Eleanor’s couriers.

“You know who I am?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I need you to deliver a message to Madame Guthrie. Notify her of my arrival, but let her know I have a dire personal matter that needs attending to first. I suspect it won’t take long.”

The boy swallows and nods, scurrying off in the direction of the tavern as Flint turns to scrutinize the rest of the ruffian conclave. He studies them a long moment, then flicks his wrist dismissively.

“Don’t you lot have somewhere else to be?”

They stare blankly.

“ _Fuck off!_ ”

The boys scatter like a flock of drunken seagulls.

Flint manages to keep his smirk at bay until they’re out of sight, the only proof of their hurried exodus toward the beach a dissipating cloud of dust. It’s oddly comforting to know his reputation still proceeds him, at least in certain circles. Apparently imaginary sea creatures and delinquent children are the last holdouts in his well-earned legacy of intimidation.

_Speaking of which._

Flint turns, his smirk widening.

He takes a step but finds his forward momentum halted by an unexpected flash of movement at his feet. An overweight rooster dawdles out from beneath the bottom rung of the fence, deliberately blocking Flint from continuing up the pathway. He nudges the bird aside with the toe of his boot, but the rotund creature flaps at him aggressively, rusty feathers ruffled in anger.

It refuses to move.

Flint pivots, trying to sidestep the beast, but the rooster gives chase, hissing like a goddamned snake.

“Oh, _fuck_ _you_ ,” Flint snarls.

The bird jumps at him, arching its talons as it twists in midair, missing him by a wide margin before landing on its side in the dirt. Stunned but determined, it clumsily rolls to its feet and begins to pace in a circle around him.

“I think he likes you.”

A boy of twelve sits atop the rickety fence, the sole survivor of Flint’s impromptu purge. He watches Flint struggle with the rooster, though he offers no assistance.

“Alms for the poor?” the boy asks, idly swinging his legs. He smiles brightly, immune to Flint’s glower, his bare heels clomping obnoxiously against the wooden railing.

Flint snorts and shakes his head.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

The boy looks offended by the dismissal, absently scratching at a patch of dried mud on his collar.

He’s filthy, Flint notes, once white breeches and shirt stained with dirt. More mud covers his feet, coating his pale ankles in what looks to be a grimy facsimile of actual shoes. Flint frowns, fairly certain there’s more sludge streaking the boy’s left cheek and hairline. Hastily washed, though to no great avail, going by the filth that still remains.

“That _hardly_ seems fair. Especially with all your treasure.”

“Beg pardon?”

The boy hops down from his perch, surreptitiously eyeing the rucksack hanging on Flint’s shoulder.

“A man on the beach told me you captured a French warship. Said you slit _le_ _capitaine’_ _s_ throat and took his most prized possessions.”

Flint steps back, laying a protective hand across the top of his bag.

“That’s what you heard?”

“Aye.”

“Then you must be as daft as this senile monstrosity of a rooster.”

The monstrosity in question doesn’t take kindly to Flint’s tone—it always fucking _knows_ when he’s talking about it—and the hissing starts up yet again. The rooster hurdles itself into the air, managing to catch a single talon against the loose fabric gathered around Flint’s knee. The bird flutters back down to the ground, victorious.

Flint stares incredulously at the tear.

_We should have eaten you when we had the fucking chance._

Flint and the rooster lunge at the same time, but find their skirmish cut short by a pair of grubby hands descending to pluck the feathered hellion off the pathway. The bird squawks indigently, still hissing at Flint as it’s lifted into the air.

“A broken neck is all it takes,” Flint taunts back, envisioning a lovely pot of boiling water. He flips open his rucksack, digging through the top layer of clothing as next to him the boy defiantly hoists the rooster up to his own face.

“Aw, don’t you listen to the mean old man, Ajax,” the boy coos. “I’ll never let that happen. You’re wonderful and I love you, even if you’re older than dirt.”

The boy settles the mollified rooster under his arm, every ounce of feigned pretense now stripped away as he smiles at Flint, blue eyes squinting slightly in the sunlight. “Speaking of _senile_. Hello, Captain.”

Flint raises an eyebrow, holding up the book as his only response.

Silver’s grin fades.

“And here I thought,” Flint drawls, “after two perilous months at sea, surely I’d return to find you far more appreciative of all the things I do for you. I suppose I’ll have to gift this to some other literate miscreant—Dufresne perhaps?”

“The hell you will!”

There’s a flurry of wings and loose feathers as Silver releases Ajax, grabbing for the book with a look of mad desperation on his face. Flint steps back, watching anxiously as the boy turns the volume over in his hands, fingers reverently tracing the whorls of gold-leaf engraved upon the cover. He’s almost certain it’s the right version, but it’s been so long since the original was destroyed, he can’t quite recall. The drawings had looked right, anyway; the same craggy isle rocks, the lonely, lumbering monster.

“You found it,” Silver whispers. “I can’t believe you actually found it.”

“You like it?”

“I…”

Flint smiles then, taking the boy’s sudden speechlessness as affirmation.

“I scoured every inch of the West Indies for that copy, you know. Ransacked and burned a dozen market port bookshops between here and Saint Kitts just to find it.”

Silver looks up, his gaze a little more than skeptical.

“Or I asked a merchant to keep an eye out,” Flint offers. He pauses, trying to gauge the boy’s true reaction. “You really _do_ like it though?”

Silver beams. 

“It’s _perfect_! She’s going to be so jealous!”

Flint shakes his head, hoping he doesn’t look as pleased as he feels.

“You two and your fairy stories. Had I known Miranda was going to indoctrinate you with her love of fantastical drivel, I’d have started you on the classics earlier. A shame, really. You had such promise.”

“ _Drivel?”_ Silver sputters, as if this isn’t the hundredth time they’ve had this particular debate. “At least it’s bloody _interesting_. I’ve seen you read the same Hesiod poem twice in a single day.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” Flint replies, for the hundredth and one time.

“It’s about _farming_.”

Flint laughs at the familiar retort, hefting his bag with a defeated shrug as he drapes his free arm around Silver’s shoulders, pulling the boy close before he’s able to squirm away.

“Should I ask why you look like you’ve been sleeping in a pigsty? And where are your shoes, for fuck’s sake?”

Silver fidgets, flexing his muddy toes.     

“I might have, um— _possibly—_ been thrown by Roc this morning.”

Flint takes hold of Silver’s face.

“It wasn’t that bad!” Silver insists, futilely twisting away from Flint’s frantic inspection. “I mostly landed in the mud—and I think I lost one of my shoes somewhere in the grass—but I’m _fine_ , I _swear_.”

Undeterred, Flint’s fingers continue their investigation within the tangled mess of Silver’s hair. It’s a familiar motion, one that conjures too many memories of past injuries he’d prefer to forget. He would have once thought such things got easier, with enough practice. To plan for all the inevitable bumps and contusions that came with raising a child. And yet, after nearly a decade’s worth of time together and a still growing logbook of new scars, Silver’s penchant for befriending trouble still remains a continuous source of worry.

_And gray fucking hairs._

When Flint finds nothing amiss—Silver’s hard head clearly serving him in more ways than one—his hands drop to rest against the boy’s dirty cheeks instead. Relief washes through him, though it’s quickly followed by the sudden, desperate urge to shake some sense into the curly head between his palms.

“Rocinante is too big for you to ride, how many times--”

“I _know._ ”

“You could have been _killed_ , John.”

“Buce needed a new shoe and Roc was the only one saddled,” Silver says, ducking out of Flint’s hold. “He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“That’s not a _good enough reason_.”

“Eleanor sent a messenger!”

Flint waits for more, but Silver draws up short, refusing to continue.

“And?”                                           

The boy looks away, shrugging. He doesn’t say it, but Flint reads the next part clear as day: _And you were two weeks late._

Flint shakes his head.

“I appreciate your concern, but you know as well as I do the sea has no love for timetables. If--”

“A fortnight is _hardly_ a cause for concern,” Silver cuts him off, plucking at a downy rooster feather stuck between the folds of his shirt. “I was just bored this morning, that’s all. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Now wait a--”

“Don’t you have a meeting?”

_Fuck. The Consortium._

Flint exhales heavily, pointing a finger at the boy.

“You’re changing the subject, but as I’m late already, we’ll continue this discussion after supper.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Silver huffs, crossing his arm indignantly. “We’re having eel pie by the way. I think that’s punishment enough for everyone involved.”

“You’ll eat two servings, and you’ll pretend to like every bite.”

“But--"                                                                

“And maybe, just maybe, if you appear sufficiently repentant, I won’t tell Miranda what happened.”

Silver’s eyes light up at the unexpected concession, and Flint tries not to feel vaguely offended, though he has no one to blame but himself. His name alone might instill terror in the hearts of many—Silver’s friends included—but in Nassau, they both know whose wrath it is that Silver _truly_ fears.

Flint sighs and continues up the pathway.

“Wait!” Silver calls out, jogging to catch him. “I’ll go with you. I need to talk to Max anyway.”

“And what dastardly scheme are you and Max plotting this week?”

“ _Nothing,”_ Silver denies.

The reply is far too quick for comfort, but Flint only nods, deciding he doesn’t have the interest nor the energy to press the subject further. He’ll never understand those two, and it’s likely for the best. As long as they’re not planning a repeat of the great guava heist of 1723, he’ll willingly go to his bed tonight an ignorant man.

Silver falls into step and they both enter the last section of the market, Ajax trotting close behind.

The scent of fried sausage drifts between the stalls and Flint feels his gut react in both hunger and horror at the smell. Later, perhaps, when he’s been on solid ground for more than ten minutes. He’s famished though—and he doesn’t need to ask if Silver wants food. The boy would use a garden trowel to eat his meals, if they’d let him.

They stop to buy bread, an appeasement to Flint’s stomach that’s unlikely to cause trouble.

The baker’s wife fawns over Silver, digging through a mound of fresh loaves as she prattles on about the weather in rapid Spanish. Flint only understands about half of it, but Silver smiles and asks about each of her children by name. Flint doesn’t even remember _her_ name, let alone her children’s, but the small talk earns Silver an extra-large loaf of the saffron recipe they both favor, so he’s hardly going to complain.

“Have you been gallivanting all morning?” Flint asks some moments later, tearing free a piece of bread for himself. He hands the rest to Silver, who tucks his book beneath his armpit and begins to gnaw at the end of the loaf, chewing loudly.

“Wait’d on th’ beech fer a while. Meester ’ott’s crew tauh’ me how ta play ’ead man’s ’ambit.”

“If I recall,” Flint says, watching Silver struggle not to choke himself, “ _I_ taught you how to play dead man’s gambit two years ago. _Both_ card variations.”

“Did you?” Silver demurs.

The boy pats his shirt pocket, and Flint tries not to roll his eyes at the sound of rattling coins. _Alms for the poor indeed._

Across the street a pair of mule-drawn carts turn onto the thoroughfare, rickety wheels kicking up a cloud of dust as the drivers vie for the same side of the road. The men scramble out of their carts and begin to argue, their mules shuffling nervously between them. Flint’s left palm catches Silver across the chest, holding him back as his right hand falls to the hilt of his sword. It’s habit mostly, the altercation unlikely to escalate beyond a few choice words, but he doesn’t remove either hand until the quarrel ends, both men climbing back into their carts after a series of unsightly gestures.

As the carts lumber away, Flint notices a far more ominous sight ahead.

_Christ. Give me war over politics any day._

Two elderly men stand on the opposite side of the street, caught up by the same domestic melee. They’re talking quietly to each other, faces sour, and Flint tries to recall their names from the handful of times he’s met them over the years.

 _Smith_ _something—and McClement?_ _No_ , _McClemon_.

He’s always found both men to be a fairly cantankerous, though oddly open-minded toward reforms when it benefited them. Whatever incident has pulled them from the interior this morning, however, doesn’t appear to have improved upon their moods. Smith sees Flint first, nodding his head in wary greeting as McClemon continues to rant, disinterested in the crowd around him. When he finally looks up, it’s only to scowl in Flint’s direction.

“Gentlemen,” Flint offers.

McClemon raises a bony fist at him, spitting mad. “This nonsense won’t stand!”

“Sir, I’m not--”

“Tell your Governor I won’t be taken in by a charlatan like Underhill! I refuse to pay for his ineptitude!”

The exchange has drawn an audience, the murmured voices only growing louder as shoppers stop to observe the heated dispute. When McClemon begins to complain about rising export prices, Smith finally drags him away, shooting Flint a single look of burdened frustration as they depart. The crowd’s attention shifts to Flint, however, and the whispers begin anew.

He takes Silver by the elbow, making for the tavern at a steady clip.

“Is the Governor aware of this?” he murmurs, bending to avoid prying eyes and ears.

_Nosy sycophants, each and every one of them._

“He knows—all of Nassau knows,” Silver answers, unperturbed. “He said you should go to his office, by the way. When you’re finished with the Consortium.”

“He won’t be at the meeting?”

Silver shrugs.

“There’s been an assembly all morning with the landowners. Some dispute over rogue oxen getting free from Underhills’s plantation during the storm and wandering onto other estates.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not. The oxen ate an entire _acre_ of sugar cane at the Jacobson plantation. Did you know oxen even _liked_ sugar cane? Do you think it would make them plow faster? I once ate a jar of treacle on a dare, but all I did was retch it back up. It was _disgusting_. I think--”

Flint refrains from putting a hand over Silver’s mouth, though he does interrupt the rant. “Yes, thank you.”

“There was a lot of screaming, so I didn’t stay at the mansion very long.”

Flint huffs.

“I’m shocked you were let past the front door, with feet like that.”

“One of the farmers brought his _ewe_ into the foyer,” Silver says. “Believe me, I was the lesser of many evils for our _esteemed_ Governor today.”

Flint sighs, a headache settling deep between his eyes as they near the tavern, their hasty approach watched by a group of young men standing clustered just inside the entrance. They spare Flint a cursory glance, well used to his presence by now, though each of them offers a decidedly friendlier nod in Silver’s general direction before returning to their conversation.

Flint recognizes a few of them, teenagers all a little taller than the last time he’d seen them. The oldest had been a carpenter’s mate on Hornigold’s crew once, and a talented one at that. Flint had tried to offer him a position on the _Walrus_ , when he’d gotten big enough, but the lad had declined, insistent he was happy to stay on under Eleanor’s employ. _All_ of the crèche brethren were, he’d come to find.

Loyalty begets loyalty, and Eleanor Guthrie had inadvertently nurtured an army. 

Flint turns his head, his eyes flitting above the tavern doors. Someone watches them from one of the higher balconies, a shadow hidden amid the wind-churned curtains of Eleanor’s office. Realizing she’s been spotted, Max vanishes back into the office, a swish of mulberry fabric in her wake.

_Definitely plotting something. Please Jove don’t let it involve oxen._

Flint turns back to Silver, who’s busy feeding the last of his bread to Ajax.

“Was there at least any progress on the articles while I was gone?”

“He told me not to tell you.”

“Well, what our beloved Lord Governor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Silver raises a finger, puffing out his chest. _“Tell your Captain he’s to come straight to my office, to discuss the articles in person. If he refuses, or tries to coerce you with acts of devious chicanery, tell that unpunctual brigand I shall be extremely cross. Also, I wish to bequeath John Silver a pony for his birthday_. His words, not mine.”

“Hmm. Yes, that does sound _very_ official.”

“I think I might have a future in politics.”

Flint chuckles, shaking his head.

“Christ, that’s an abhorrent thought. You’ll turn my hair gray before I’m ready.”

“I think we both know you’re well past that point,” Silver says, shooing Ajax up the stairs toward the tavern’s entrance. The boy follows the bird inside, disappearing through the doors and out of earshot, unable to hear Flint’s response. After a beat, Silver peers back around the doorframe.

“Captain?”

“I _said_ ,” Flint smugly offers, “perhaps over supper tonight I’ll inform our _esteemed_ Governor you used that voice again. What were you saying about a pony?”

Silver clutches his chest.

“You _wouldn’t._ ”

Flint shrugs. “I could be convinced to withhold such information, for the right price. I’ve heard stories of a local miscreant who recently acquired quite a bit of gambled coin. Do you think he’d be willing to share in such a treasure?”

“He’s right. You _are_ a brigand.”

Flint snorts and waves Silver off.

“Please don’t let that beast defecate on Eleanor’s furniture again. Lace cushions aren’t cheap, I’ll have you remember.”

 _“_ Ajax would _never_. He has the constitution of a much younger bird.”

“Says the boy with rooster shit on his sleeve.”

Silver glances down at his shirt, a quiet _fuck_ slipping out of his mouth as he wrinkles his nose in disgust. Flint hands him a handkerchief.

“I’ll come find you when the meeting’s over. Say hello to Max for me. And whatever it is you two are _not_ planning, just finish before dark.”

“We aren’t--"

“ _Before_ _dark_.”

Silver rolls his eyes at the tepid rebuke.

“ _Fine_. Can we go to the beach tomorrow?”

“If there’s nothing pressing,” Flint answers, then crosses his arms. “Come to think of it, maybe we’ll take the leftover eel for lunch.”

The boy balks, glaring at Flint a long moment before pivoting back toward the doorway as he grumbles, _“I hate you so much.”_

Flint intends to follow him inside, but stops at the bottom step when he notices Silver hesitating at the threshold, his sudden rush to get inside all but evaporated.

Silver turns, holding the book to his chest.

“Are they going to send you out again?”

“In a few weeks or so, most likely. Tired of me already?”

“The storms have been bad,” Silver says, ignoring Flint’s jest as he bites mindlessly at the inside of his cheek. “Some of the men on the beach said they saw wreckage outside of Tortuga a week ago. It just seems dangerous to go out again. So _soon_ , I mean.”

Flint feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. _Ah._

“I thought you said our delay was nothing to be concerned about?”

“No, _of course not._ I only--” Silver falters, looking away, his gaze anywhere and everywhere but at Flint. “People were just talking and I… I thought…”

The boy’s face changes, a subtle shift toward melancholy that Flint refuses to abide.

“John…”

“It’s stupid, I shouldn’t have said that.”

Flint steps closer, resting a boot against the bottom stair. He tilts his head and waits for Silver to finally meet his eyes.   

“I’ll always come back for you, whatever happens.”

Flint knows such promises cannot truly be kept.

Even if he survives the next bullet, the next accident at sea, time itself will inevitability make a liar out of him. Silver understands this, Flint knows. Some part of him—some remnant of a life once lived—comprehends the frailty of existence in a way most never could. He knows Flint is lying, just as he knows Flint would traverse the seas to find him. Had, in fact, done just that once.

And yet.

Flint will continue to make such promises, as long as Silver needs to hear it. He’ll repeat them until his throat gives out—until the oceans turn to dust and the trees to ash—if that’s what it takes.

Silver watches him carefully, the gears in his mind clicking away.

“Whatever happens?” he asks.

_Promise me._

“Whatever happens.”

_I promise._

Silver nods hesitantly, a delicate gesture that grows more confident as he finally smiles at Flint, shifting the grip on his book.

“Go on then,” Flint offers, nodding toward the balcony above. “I’m sure Max is--"

The boy darts down the stairs, crashing into Flint like a wave.

Silver’s arms loop about his waist, the boy’s newfound veneer of youthful vanity stripped away as he presses his dirty cheek to the bandoleer wrapped around Flint’s chest, unconcerned about who might see them. The bodily onslaught pushes Flint back a step, and he steadies them both as Silver tightens his hold, fingers clinging to the back of Flint’s shirt.

Flint bends, settling his chin against the top of Silver’s unruly hair.

_It’s good to be home._

 

 

 

 

 

 

*   *   *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/Kudos are very welcome. <3
> 
>  
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> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> It’s done! \o/
> 
> Only _[looks at smudged handwriting]_ several months late. Really sorry about that.
> 
> I’m sure this didn’t end as some of you expected—or necessarily wanted. To be honest, this weird little AU took a turn for me as well.
> 
> Funny story: I initially set out writing this fic with the intention of turning Silver back. There would be nudity, and hilarious hijinks. And then I starting writing Chapter 3. Do you know who plays a big role in Chapter 3? _Miranda_. And I suddenly knew that if the story continued down its canonical path (minus a brief magical baby interlude), she was going to die. And I just couldn’t do it. I wanted her to live, and be loved, and so she did. EVERYBODY GETS TO LIVE. (I know the epilogue didn’t clear up everything, and some of that was intentional. Otherwise, you’d have 90 more chapters on the intricacies of S2-S4 plotpoints being folded into this ‘verse. It’s been a busy decade for Nassau, let’s just say that.)
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely internet strangers who took the time to leave me messages and kudos. You’ll never understand how much it’s appreciated.
> 
> Thanks to thefunnylady—who was my funny lady first.
> 
> I’ve posted a link to the story on my writing Tumblr [ if anyone wants to share over there. ](https://beelieve-y.tumblr.com/post/174075833457/de-novo-from-the-new/)
> 
> Also go check out [ this beyond amazing fanart,](http://sjuulsjuul.tumblr.com/post/172800804843/you-ever-find-a-fic-that-is-everything-you-never) which inspired me to keep going, even when my brain decided to take a holiday. (omgMiranda!)
> 
> I absolutely adore this fandom. <3


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